Colors on Concrete

Bright paint bleeds down

chipped bricks—wet and raw,

dripping letters tangled,

a riot pressed into stone.

The scent of fresh spray

sharp as rain on cold air,

mixed with concrete’s sting

and the city’s tired breath.

Old tags hide beneath,

ghosts layered in faded script,

words shouted, scratched away,

forgotten stories left to rot.

I stand too close,

feel the colors burn,

a silent shout on a wall

that knows how to forget.

No permission asked,

no beauty claimed,

just the weight of defiance,

a scar bright and bleeding.

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