The Poem That Comes After Trial Accounts "Masters Graff"

The Poem That Comes After Trial Accounts "Masters Graff"
Ashley “Arts” Hart
The Poem That Comes After Trial Accounts "Masters Graff"
Ashley “Arts” Hart

The Poem That Comes After Trial Accounts "Masters Graff"

Poet: Ashley “Arts” Hart, 18

This is Ashley Hart's second year participating in Louder Than a Bomb. She is a senior at Curie High School and a member of Team Lyrical Revolution.



The Poem That Comes After Trial Accounts "Masters Graff"
Impractical/
Imperfect/
His hands moved/
Designing majestic murals upon his stone paper/
Shaking paint against the Chicago's cold/
His hoodie stained with the colors of a new art piece/
He worked steadily/
His piece/
Paragon/
Untouchable/
He escapes only the inartistic/
Using colored metaphors to paint madness/
Without grafficks he'd be madness/
Protruding burgundy as his pleasure/
He stencils megatrons with bases onto brick canvases/
Staining permission walls with multicolored fat caps and lids/
He masters basicks/
Inserting music within his decos/
Extensive symbolism in every piece he spins through blaring headphones/
His typically flipped thoughts hop through streets where he writes to slam props/
He delves deep into a Graff packed haven/
It's a shame that his paint burns through your names/
He lets the letters in his scriptures stain silently in true blue dancing from bus stops, to train cars/
Even replacing gang tattoos/
Scribing description through addiction/
Painting never felt so straight and narrow/
Yet stigmas sting the palms the spray cans in to show they're fearful/
This night crawler in all black who's habit is incurable/
Whose hands were meant to dance this craft of Graff into murals/
Whose existence is to instantly spew beauty onto bare walls/
When conformity lacks a love for him and shatters his past perfection with laws/
Pressing down his perfect hobby/
Smearing tears into his krylon/
Halting his business for an instant but unanimously he still bombs/
I think it's tragic how a craft that started beautiful was twisted/
This Gifted kid whose gained a love for Graff are forcefully being shifted into infamy While the canister does his dance/
This man sprays his name for days with callusd varicoloured hands/
He gets/
Intimate with his artistry/
Scribing rights through metallic tongues/
They wait for him to quit and wish his masterpiece undone/
He breaks beats into his paintings/
Fine signatures staining steel/
Placeing emotions with his magic/
Laying out the way he feels/
This be his night job/
The touch of sin and mud/
He writes across glass windows/
Within the boundraries of the the sun/
His hands are beauty at its peak/
Blazing words across a page/
Permission wall anthropologies raining through for days/
He is the sandman on your pillow/
A marker wrapped in dreams/
Instant gratification/
The silouette of kings/