Rarebreed

March 13, 2009
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Pens in your pocket,
Cans in your bag.
Looking for the right place,
To lay your tag.
Trying to get respect,
For writing your name;
Will continue you to do it
Until you earn that fame.
Passing the legends
Doesn't phase you any more;
It's all the same stuff
You have seen before.
You want to express
And put your story on the walls;
To stand out somewhere,
In this urban sprawl.
The colors once vivid,
Now are fading away,
Creating a blank canvas
For a different artist someday.
You walk through the graveyard,
With those of old.
Recounting the stories
Which they once told.
You come back to the present,
And look down at your hands,
Covered in paint,
From murals that you planned.
A rarebreed of artists,
Lost and alone.
You are sick of the pain,
So you decide to go home.
Pens in your pocket,
Cans in your bag.
You leave it all behind,
And throw in the white flag.





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