Graffiti Writers Strike
Creators of Diversity
In shades of grey they wander, seeing no contradiction, no
creative experiments are at hand, just wandering in their own
mind, while sorrow and emptiness slowly consumes them from
beneath, like the all eating flames of purgatory.
This constitution of nothingness, calls upon creators of the
abstract world. The grey world it self has by this made a
contrast. In the force of nature this wilderness of
non-figurative art is concealed.
Young stains of this force sparkles as stars in the dark night,
even with their head hidden under the dark hood, in shame of what
the world has become, they sparkle as bright as ever. While tags
of proportions are flying through their inner universe, they
express their art as a gift to those who wander in the shades of
But nothing but negativity is left to feel, as the authorities'
crawls along. The wounds never became scars as the soul couldn't
heal. Screams of hate were long forgotten before they ever
reached the tips of their bleeding lips.
The fate of this world has been destined, and yet dictators of
anger aren't willing to sacrifice a bit of their comfort to make
a positive change, of mind and in the world.
As these thoughts runs through his mind, the hooded artist grabs
his can, and takes of too make a difference in the shades of
As his colours spreads like a plague of rainbows, he séances a
bit of gratitude from the naked railways, witch slowly turns into
a world of diversity. Once again he swells in the colours witch
have spread from his mind. As he takes of, the world starts to
spin, a siren breaks the silence, and flashing lights blinds him
in the night.
By instinct he seeks into the darkness, the ground is shaking
beneath him; he falls upon nothing but emptiness. He feels no
pain, but corruption has sat it spores in his soul, and as his
flesh starts to rotten, he feels a cold wet hand upon his
shoulder, slowly pulling him up.
He follows like the sheep that came from the sky, like born on
new he just follows the hand of the wind, it is leading him
towards dark water, he hears it dripping. As he goes down on he's
knees he feels the freezing liquid surrounding him. Like a mass
of silver, it penetrates his skin, filling his mind, and as he
slowly starts to dream he feels like a robot, programmed only to
fall from grace.
He feels something inside him starting to warm, like divine bumps
of life, riding through he's body, he opens his eyes, and before
stands white surgeons, looking like angels, and through them he
has returned as a lion.