Byline: Ghost of Graffiti

Buford Youthward

The ruins welcome me.

With a heart that's already been broken.

Divided into camps between those who have experienced lost and those who haven't lost yet, the ramblin' and gamblin' get scramblin'.

I went down to the crossroad and made a deal with my passion.

I invested in immersion, an intense interest.

Forgetting that freedom is irresponsibility, ignorant to carelessness, I decided to know what I wanted to know, I was bound for glory like a Woody Guthrie fable.

I became a voice of degeneration wishing I was the voice of my generation, I watched great talents, great minds of my neighborhood get co-opted by art galleries and sports bars.

Graffiti ghetto ghosts abandon their weapons on the battlefield as their slogans are captured on T-shirts and soda pop commercials.

My best friend paints signs as a way of signaling paint. I sign off and sing songs financed by alcohol and radio promoters. I try not to stay mad at the catered spread, not let too many tears get shed.

The game is on and everybody's in. I'm at the end of the middle but just starting to begin.

Not all of us get to walk in the sun, under the propaganda of what is possible. The graveyard of good intentions is congested with promotion commotion.

Regardless, it is not circumstance that makes a man, circumstance only reveals him to himself. And when someone shows you who they are, even if it's yourself, accept it.

After all, we are all worth the reality of our desires.

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