I grab the purple chalk first,
gritty but smooth in palm.
It starts to disintegrate,
As I drag it along the rough surface.
I repeat the cycle using all the primary colors.
I step to the street.
I look at my masterpiece.
Nothing but graffiti.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I used to draw with chalk all the time, good times as a childen. This poem makes me remember my past nice!