I once stood in this very same spot,
Several years ago,
In front of the old man's corner store,
Staring at my graffiti upon his wall.
“It's beautiful!” I thought to myself,
In the cold dead of midnight.
And now, whenever someone would pass the store,
They'd know to whom
That mark belonged.

It was more beautiful that any
That old man had ever made.
I felt so proud of myself,
Seeing my own work of art, and I didn't
Care, not one bit, about his store,
His mark, his art.

But now I can't withhold my disdain.
For was it really worth it,
Ruining my fellow man's
Work of art?
Am I that important that my mark,
Overshadow his own?

And now, I lay this old me to rest,
For I am him no more.
I have learned, perhaps too late,
What it means to rob a man,
Of the message that he wants to send,
To steal his mark,
To degrade his art,
So that I might make myself
shine brighter.