What a hot mess “Megan and Jess”.

Some art is far fetched, and scars are artless.

Some offer alms for the broken hearted.

Solace is needed for the heartless.

Spray paint vessel’s need space to add all of it’s expression.

It’s essential for everyone to place their signature, and leave it

for the world to see.

Take the graffitin’ out and you’d see the same blank shaded, and

Old dedicated frameworks.

All over towns, changes occur so easily.

In the underground it's as if there’s no real scene that fits.

People finding a peaceful place to put up a R.I.P.

Peeps post their petty work,

Putting it up with paint.

Only to take it down with more.

Graffitin’, ain’t it a trip to flip the scripts?

Fix it up so no one tries to put a mark on it.

Tag’s come like a flash at night.

No one really see’s,

No one really try’s,

No one likes to read, and

No one tells of what they scribe.

What a downtrodden way to a sketchers day,

to waylay the land and all the things that stand.

I can’t help to think of those two friends, and

How women’s sense of art is so complex.

Vivacious in every symbol in sequence

to their street names.

AKAin’  the suspense,

Which street corner to hit up next.

They always come new and improved.

Those who get there writes up.

Get them high up in the sky ups.

Keep your chins up,

Don’t let the time up, or

You might wind up in a line up.

A splash of paint in a naughty state,

could have you displayed for the rest of your days.

Looking at the spot you dubbed, to word your memorial,

to commiserate your strain the world made.

It’s all hott though it could be here today and lost tomorrow.

Your expression is set like the words I’m getting at on this page/mic.