paintscorches.

'this is where you make a name for yourself."

The wall was black or at, at least, it used to be.
Now the paint was peeling under the pressure of
a decade of graffitti, sharpie marker hearts
and abandoned dreams.

The paintbrush was a fine tipped, horsehair
detail brush, only a fraction the size of the
back ally I had to paint. Its tip was crusty
from all the art it had created, though when
it had completed its masterpeice, someone had
discarded it, besides it was only a tool. I felt
a connection to it in that aspect.

The rubble reminded me of snow though it was 70
degrees out and blistering with heat. It crinched
underneath my bareheat cutting its name into the soles
of my feet, making a name for itself, the same way
I was about to etch my name onto the world. Kind
of pathetic really, but I suppose we all want to
think we've left something behind, that in all
these years of life we've at least changed
something.

I started out with clean strokes of baby blue
buttercups and sugar covering each corner with
blueskies, butterflies and denial. Though my
writing cramps told me that no one seems
to look twice at light, plesant art. Its always
realists that tear through the blankets

I painted the wall black, ironic that the rolling
stones made a song about that really, I never knew
what it meant until the needles punctured vein after vein
until my forarm was covered with stars, asteroids
and chasms of turmoil. I was soaking it all in through
the pores of greed, feeding the monster that raged within
me because the berlin wall, ground zero and the temple
of Jerusalem were all burnt into history.

I took up splatterpaint etching my mistakes into the wall
one by one. Till the colors bled together to create a
murky brown.

It rained as if too complete the chaos I had created.
Because when I looked into the puddles that gathered
around the wall I saw a stranger pearing back at me.
I spent hours prodding my fingertips against her
flaming red hair tangled around her shoulders and reached
for her empty icy blue eyes. They were glazed over with
denial painting her world honeyblue when all there really
was was blackness.

A back ally flickered with the raindrops as they crashed
into its reflection.

The wall was black or, at least, it used to be. Now it was
smothered by overgrown desires and mad scratches that had
never quite made it to the history books.

I carved two words into space
to repel shooting stars and
off course space shuttles.

"save me"