I remember the last time I saw the scrawled graffiti on the storm drain wall.

Although it was written with an uncomfortable hand,

its message would make an angel weep in frustration

and the effect it had on me was to change things for a while.

I would hide in that drain pipe when times got rough,

when thinking in my room about events and others

words upon my soul and mine, perhaps more hurtful,

that would scar their heart and have me scar my arms.