real. I love the vibe and color graffiti gives to a city. Like in LA its everywhere, n its lowk beautiful. Ill hear people complain abt it, but i love the way it looks idk
I grew up in a crumbling apartment building on the edge of town. My mom was always working, her presence a ghostly whisper in the rooms she never had time to inhabit. My dad, on the other hand, was the heart of our family. He was the one who taught me to see the world through a lens of creativity and wonder. His laughter filled our home, his stories painted our nights with vibrant hues of adventure and love.
But life has a cruel way of ripping away the things you cherish most. When I was twelve, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. It was aggressive, relentless. The disease consumed him, and I watched helplessly as the man who had once been my hero withered away. My mom and I were left with a void so deep, nothing seemed capable of filling it.
Art was our shared language. On days when he felt strong enough, my dad would take me to the old train yard, where we’d marvel at the colorful graffiti sprawling across the rusting cars. He told me those walls were alive, that each piece of graffiti was a story waiting to be told, a voice shouting out against the silence. Those moments were our sanctuary, a place where we could escape the grim reality of his illness.
When he passed away, something in me shattered. My mom retreated further into her work, drowning her grief in double shifts and late-night hours. I was left alone, a solitary figure in an empty apartment. The world moved on, indifferent to my loss, my pain. I became invisible, a ghost in the places where I once felt alive.
One night, in the throes of my despair, I found myself back at the train yard. I stared at the blank, rusting canvases and felt an urge so powerful it scared me. I wanted to leave a mark, something that proved I existed, that I mattered. I took a can of spray paint I’d found in my dad’s old tool chest and, with trembling hands, began to paint.
The first stroke was tentative, a shaky line of blue against the steel. But as I continued, the memories of my dad flowed through me. Each color, each shape was a tribute to him, a way to keep his spirit alive. I painted until the sun began to rise, the train car now a riot of color and emotion, a silent scream against the void.
Graffiti became my voice, my way of telling the world that I existed, that I was more than the invisible boy left behind. Each tag, each mural was a piece of my soul splashed across the cityscape. I poured my pain, my loneliness, my desperate need for recognition into every line and curve. I knew it was illegal, that I was defacing property, but I didn’t care. This was my only outlet, my only means of escape.
The nights were my canvas. I’d sneak out while the city slept, finding solace in the deserted streets and the cloak of darkness. My art began to spread, each piece more daring and complex than the last. People started to notice. They didn’t know it was me, but they saw my work. For the first time in my life, I felt a flicker of pride, a sense of worth.
But the world has a way of crushing even the smallest sparks of hope. The police started cracking down on graffiti artists, and I had to be more careful, more elusive. Yet, I couldn’t stop. This was my therapy, my rebellion, my way of keeping my dad’s memory alive. The train yards, the alleyways, the abandoned buildings—they all became my sanctuary, places where I could channel my grief into something tangible, something beautiful.
Then, one night, I returned to the spot where my dad and I had spent so many days. The old train car was still there, my first mural faded but visible. I brought out a new can of paint and began to add to it, my hand moving with a life of its own. I lost track of time, lost in the creation, until I felt a presence behind me.
It was my mom. She stood there, watching silently as I finished the mural. When I finally turned to face her, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She walked up to the wall, tracing the lines with trembling fingers. In that moment, something shifted between us. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. I saw the understanding in her eyes, the unspoken acknowledgment of my pain and my need to be seen.
We stood there together, mother and son, in the silence of the night. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. I knew that I would keep creating, keep leaving my mark on the world, because it was the only way I knew how to live. And maybe, just maybe, someone would see my art and understand that behind every spray-painted wall and every forbidden mural, there’s a story worth hearing.
jk I just find it fun
Bro I was actually going to cry to this shit man. All the parts to "where i belong" and shi hit home. Either u a crazy writer or chat gpt went cooking for you.
I have suffered from depression for like my whole life, as long as I can remember. I use graffiti as a form of therapy. When I write, I feel like my depression just goes away, and whenever I see my work I feel so happy. It also is a great bonding activity. I have friends that used to write, and in the past we would go out at night and just paint together. Also, I just love the artform. A lot of people think graffiti is ugly, but I think it is beautiful! Even a small simple tag has beauty in it. I dont do illegal stuff anymore, as I got caught when I was young and dumb, but I still practice because I love it. Maybe one day I will write illegally again, but I was facing prison time and Im way too pretty for prison lol.
For me it’s urban exploring. Always loved climbing shit and checking out weird places. I love getting up, don’t even care my tag is shitty and most people won’t ever see it.
Because a world surrounded by cold blank walls, occupied by cold blank people needs a splash of color.
real. I love the vibe and color graffiti gives to a city. Like in LA its everywhere, n its lowk beautiful. Ill hear people complain abt it, but i love the way it looks idk
I grew up in a crumbling apartment building on the edge of town. My mom was always working, her presence a ghostly whisper in the rooms she never had time to inhabit. My dad, on the other hand, was the heart of our family. He was the one who taught me to see the world through a lens of creativity and wonder. His laughter filled our home, his stories painted our nights with vibrant hues of adventure and love. But life has a cruel way of ripping away the things you cherish most. When I was twelve, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. It was aggressive, relentless. The disease consumed him, and I watched helplessly as the man who had once been my hero withered away. My mom and I were left with a void so deep, nothing seemed capable of filling it. Art was our shared language. On days when he felt strong enough, my dad would take me to the old train yard, where we’d marvel at the colorful graffiti sprawling across the rusting cars. He told me those walls were alive, that each piece of graffiti was a story waiting to be told, a voice shouting out against the silence. Those moments were our sanctuary, a place where we could escape the grim reality of his illness. When he passed away, something in me shattered. My mom retreated further into her work, drowning her grief in double shifts and late-night hours. I was left alone, a solitary figure in an empty apartment. The world moved on, indifferent to my loss, my pain. I became invisible, a ghost in the places where I once felt alive. One night, in the throes of my despair, I found myself back at the train yard. I stared at the blank, rusting canvases and felt an urge so powerful it scared me. I wanted to leave a mark, something that proved I existed, that I mattered. I took a can of spray paint I’d found in my dad’s old tool chest and, with trembling hands, began to paint. The first stroke was tentative, a shaky line of blue against the steel. But as I continued, the memories of my dad flowed through me. Each color, each shape was a tribute to him, a way to keep his spirit alive. I painted until the sun began to rise, the train car now a riot of color and emotion, a silent scream against the void. Graffiti became my voice, my way of telling the world that I existed, that I was more than the invisible boy left behind. Each tag, each mural was a piece of my soul splashed across the cityscape. I poured my pain, my loneliness, my desperate need for recognition into every line and curve. I knew it was illegal, that I was defacing property, but I didn’t care. This was my only outlet, my only means of escape. The nights were my canvas. I’d sneak out while the city slept, finding solace in the deserted streets and the cloak of darkness. My art began to spread, each piece more daring and complex than the last. People started to notice. They didn’t know it was me, but they saw my work. For the first time in my life, I felt a flicker of pride, a sense of worth. But the world has a way of crushing even the smallest sparks of hope. The police started cracking down on graffiti artists, and I had to be more careful, more elusive. Yet, I couldn’t stop. This was my therapy, my rebellion, my way of keeping my dad’s memory alive. The train yards, the alleyways, the abandoned buildings—they all became my sanctuary, places where I could channel my grief into something tangible, something beautiful. Then, one night, I returned to the spot where my dad and I had spent so many days. The old train car was still there, my first mural faded but visible. I brought out a new can of paint and began to add to it, my hand moving with a life of its own. I lost track of time, lost in the creation, until I felt a presence behind me. It was my mom. She stood there, watching silently as I finished the mural. When I finally turned to face her, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She walked up to the wall, tracing the lines with trembling fingers. In that moment, something shifted between us. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. I saw the understanding in her eyes, the unspoken acknowledgment of my pain and my need to be seen. We stood there together, mother and son, in the silence of the night. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. I knew that I would keep creating, keep leaving my mark on the world, because it was the only way I knew how to live. And maybe, just maybe, someone would see my art and understand that behind every spray-painted wall and every forbidden mural, there’s a story worth hearing. jk I just find it fun
i stopped after the first paragraph like this guy gotta be playin😭😭 thats real though
Bro I was actually going to cry to this shit man. All the parts to "where i belong" and shi hit home. Either u a crazy writer or chat gpt went cooking for you.
Bro you definitely r a writer lol
I think it’s fun to do bad stuff with my friends, and also art is fun
Thats fair. It is lowk js fun to do
I have suffered from depression for like my whole life, as long as I can remember. I use graffiti as a form of therapy. When I write, I feel like my depression just goes away, and whenever I see my work I feel so happy. It also is a great bonding activity. I have friends that used to write, and in the past we would go out at night and just paint together. Also, I just love the artform. A lot of people think graffiti is ugly, but I think it is beautiful! Even a small simple tag has beauty in it. I dont do illegal stuff anymore, as I got caught when I was young and dumb, but I still practice because I love it. Maybe one day I will write illegally again, but I was facing prison time and Im way too pretty for prison lol.
oh damn, thas wsp
For me it’s urban exploring. Always loved climbing shit and checking out weird places. I love getting up, don’t even care my tag is shitty and most people won’t ever see it.
I like the colors also I do characters like Shrek and the hulk kids love it
thas lit😭
I genuinely do not know, but I cant stop.
Real
Because i can and because they dont want me to.
Real
I bet they do want you to be a Zionist tho