12 Oz. by Buck Feero Without Krylon to clean from under my fingernails I find it hard to breath. I always held my ground, never letting my pieced together world fall, Snatching what was mine from those who struggled to take me keep. I walked the miles, claiming the cities wall space With every sneakered step, cherishing the beauty Of the white washed concrete canvas. I covered any flaws the alley accumulated With vivid colors and intricate words. Spray can king was never the goal, Getting up was my only passion. I existed to caress my city with silver blue bombs, Spread from window sills to foundations On the last train I decorated I took an entire car— The sight of those twelve foot letters Outlined and accented still brings ice to my nerves. Those days are gone, and with them the thrill they carried. The thought of Aerosol Burns Constant; I put myself into pain. 26 theMeadow
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