Art is our medication here in the inner-city. Graffiti is soul paracetamol. Music is life. In a pressure cooker of rage, it is the outlet. In an utterly dark room it is light through a keyhole. Forget the coppers and the wigged criminals, art is what saves the streets.
Street art ain't asking for passing change, but for a permanent shift in the heart of our culture.
They take our spray cans under neon graffiti, before the store front swagger. Yet the heart demands a hearing, a chance to render the static of emotion into colours and form, into something that can speak my truth.
Street art bleeds right from this canister, the SOS of emotions too vivid for words, shouting in the truest language of man.
The street art projected our living dreams onto the bricks, the pictures of our souls we so needed others to read.
Street art is a high tech emotional translator using the best organic computers around, talking to every level of the brain, inviting deeper thought.
There is soul in street art, the pictures showing our troubles and hope, our shared sense of these heroin-needle trenches.
Our street art is our communities defibrillator, without it we'd all be D.O.A. already.