Graffiti.

She was like Graffiti on the walls of an ancient European city. Old in her ways, with a slight touch of the changing cultures. She was a work of art, not understood by all, but admired by many.
Oftentimes she was but a simple, straightforward advertisement yet sometimes, she was a message to the masses. Made by careless, carefree, artistic hands full of enthusiasm, she was full of flaws, but the flaws made her all the more beautiful.
She was like Graffiti on the walls of a child’s room. Innocent in her outlook but an expression of what went on in the mind. Unfinished, forgotten, she was the source of happiness to the mother. She was the kind you could look at years later, and get that beautiful nostalgic smile on your face.
She was like Graffiti on the walls of an Artist’s studio. She was near perfection, and near to the Artist’s heart. She was the one made by delicate hands for himself, and not to showcase to the world. She was the reflection of his story.
She was like Graffiti on the walls of a high school. She was the grunt and pain and the aggression. She displayed the hardships of teenage life. She was the story locked in the lockers.
She was like Graffiti, a multidisciplinary work. A creation of so many different people she had met over the vestiges of time. She said a lot, least was heard. Not understood by all, but admired by many.

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