I took up my colours and I sprayed the clouds,
but the paint dispersed and sank to the ground,
insidiously poisoning the land around;
like an invisible virus scattering its seeds,
like a beautiful rose being choked by weeds,
like bloated obsession birthing evil deeds.
So I inked it on the wall of number 10,
and they locked me up but I’ll do it again
as soon as they let me out of this pen.
The X Factor stage will be my next hit;
and if they throw me back in this pit
when they free me again I’ll grab my kit
and I’ll spray it on the newsdesk at the BBC,
for everyone in Britain to clearly see.
The word is Compassion, because Compassion is the key.

Written for Writing 101 Poetry Day 8 – Graffiti.

©Jane Paterson Basil


16 thoughts on “Graffiti

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