Category: Writers Block
Painted letters across a bathroom wall,
Torn-out wires from a payphone stall,
Shattered glass beneath my pacing feet,
A broken record without rhythm and beat...
These are all what I call home,
Pieces of a wandering soul alone.
These are all what I call life,
From a smoking pipe to a rusted knife.
Graffiti, it's written on the walls,
Sprayed in blood, or scraped in chalk.
Graffiti, it's my penmanship at best,
The means by which these sorrows I divest.
Printed letters on a cardboard roof,
It's not the best shelter that I'd choose,
But I make the best of what I can:
Cuz it's all the world against one man.
Rotten servings of someone's dish,
Tastes of garbage and smells like fish;
But I make the best of what I find,
Cuz I belong to the world, though none of it be mine.
Graffiti, it's written on the walls,
Leaving bitter memories in plain sight for all.
Graffiti, whether in crimson lines or darker arcs,
Is my only worldly means to leave a mark.
Stitched-in letters on the rags I wear,
They're torn and tattered but I don't care,
It's the only clothes I can lay claim to,
Whether they once belonged to me or you.
Crusted coins that I can barely read,
Not enough to buy much, I must concede,
But it's the only money I can call my own,
Even if it's barely enough for an ice-cream cone.
Graffiti, it's written on the walls,
So read it line by line, scrawl by scrawl.
Graffiti, it's my story written down,
Across both wall and trodden ground.
Graffiti, it's written on the walls,
So I wear it like some protective shawl.
Graffiti, it's written on the walls,
And in those shifting lines, I give my all...
Hello, I think it's nice, quite clever too.
Giving your all, the walls of the world more colorful are. Going down dimly lit alleys, finding marking of the territorial gangs gives me to quicken my pace. Will there be a rumble yet this night, does a man wait to take me at my back and gouge me through with knife giving my blood to spatter the gutters where heaped up beggars beg for a smoke and inquire, have you a couple o’ dollar to spare, just a couple o’ dollar? Please just a couple o’ dollar... Giving your all, the walls of the world more colorful are. Going by the school yard gate, peering and listenening in, finding the young ‘ens at play. Gots their chalk in rainbow hues, chalking out the game called hop scotch … couple more year, just a couple more year, not long you know, just a couple more year and will these young ‘ens as they turn towards the years of teen hop trade in their gleeful ways and rather find the bottle of scotch.. Giving your all, the walls of the world more colorful are. Can’t understand not one little bit why all in a fuss and in a rage those become who considers graffiti to be something so hideous and who constantly they go about resurfacing the walls of the world with a paint so beige, so beige, so boringly beige… Life Flows on. Connie
Grace, I can relate.
Wraith, I have no idea if you have ever seen graffiti, but seeing that you're from California, I just wanted to ask if you've ever heard of Chaka, sleez, Oiler, 125, Saber, the U.T.I crew, the T.M. crew, the K.N.S. crew, the L.O.D. crew, Harm from N.H.D., and many others from the Down Town area, the C.B.S. crew, the O.T.R. crew. I used to run into these vandals all the time on the RTD buses. Man, they sure did do a lot of damage to state property and private property as well. I liked your poem.
Just a passin' through the hallowed halls of zeZone ~ the BBS, this evenin'...well really more so by dawn's early early light, so early no light, just new dawn about to be breakin' on the other side of o' couple o' hours...and here find in passin' words from memory long time ago...well or so-n it seems...Yet just 15 month man, 15 month man and a world..my world forever changed...
Raith, I like your poem. As you say so poignantly, "Graffiti, it's written on the walls,
Sprayed in blood, or scraped in chalk.
Graffiti, it's my penmanship at best,
The means by which these sorrows I divest."
I have often felt that graffiti is the lost tongue of an alienated society, and wish that we could read its meaning more clearly.
Raskolnikov, you are right to point out the destructiveness of some members of this subculture.
Grace, I must admit that at times I have trouble with your poetry. That's no put down, I have trouble with T. S. Eliot as well. All I can do, is call them as I see them: right or wrong.
From you, we get a double serving tonight. Your first entré seems to be an ode to graffiti. You have captured eloquently the picture of any large city: the people who live there, the fear it evokes in you, and the youngsters who are the future inhabitants of this area of the city. Very beautiful.
Your second offering is harder for me to interpret, and forgive me if I totally misrepresent your view. However, I think I see in this presentation a kindred spirit.
You, like me, are writing in the middle of the night when those around you sleep peacefully. You remember something that happened fifteen months ago that seems to have changed your life forever, and you share with us the emotion that this event evokes in you. For this sharing I thank you.
Bob
Another of your excellent poems Kai. I like it.
Wow, this post is old. It's one of those I read while going through the old posts a while ago. It's excellent; I like it.
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I loved your poem , Wraith, very expressive, elequent and the repetition gives it a hypnotic mood, too.