standing in an alleyway

behind a rollicking cinema,

i stare at the graffiti murals

painted by unknown hands,

speaking unknown minds

and telling unknown tales,

tales that i've never lived

yet i see myself painted

all across these walls

in colours i've never been,

in vibrance i've never had

and in shades unknown

to my entire existence

who were these people?

whose faces are these?

do they look in pain

or do they seem at ease?

or if the uproarious cinema

disturbs their inner peace?

what does it feel like

to be a coruscating display

for everyone around to see

yet not being able to say

a single incoherent syllable

residing in the distorted maze

of your ever so lonely heart?

what does it mean to be

the center of attention

yet to live like an outcast

as if you've been set apart?

what does it feel like

to be ever so helpless

yet to be labelled as

a stimulating piece of art?