Living in a city where the trees have names
And blank walls and bus stop benches
Have a language of their own,
I wonder who I am
And wonder who will read the lines I pen
And if I'm writing in an unknown tongue.

Wandering among the spray paint
                           proclamations
That declare existence
And 'my gang can beat up your gang'
I try to fathom the kind of emptiness
That only tagging can implete,
But I was never, at my worst, so hollow