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:icontwistedscript: More from twistedscript


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August 17, 2011
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I am staring at a wall.
A blank, empty, barren wall.
There are cracks in it.
The white paint is chipping.
The spray can in my hand is cool,
and it cry's rebellion.
I hold my breath and stare at this,
this wall,
and wonder what to write on its
frayed
beaten
surface.
Truth?
No. As soon as the word is written it becomes a lie.
Love?
No, to etch it on yet another lifeless surface would only furthur mar it's meaning.
Forever?
No. For then the wall would be sure to crumble with time.
Remember?
No. I need to forget it all.
I stare at this wall.
This
Blank
Wall.
But it's not really blank, is it?
The chipped pait that leaves the
unblemished stone visible
bleeds truth.
The tiny, hopeless flower
that struggles to peak through the cracks
shouts "love."
The violent
whirring-honking-twistin-blinking-flashin storm
that crashes against this wall
every
single
day
Moans out "forever."
and the spiderweb cracks
that sprawl across the lonely walls face
humbly challenge, "remember."
I am staring at a wall.
A blank, barren, empty wall.
The spray can in my hand is cold.
As the subway shakes the forgotten monument,
I turn
and walk away.
My work is done.
My mark has been made.
On that wall,
If you look
very closely,
you will notice,
in tiny, black letters,
my single word.
...