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I am not sure what direction this all will take, how far it will go, or if all these viral dreams will come to fruition the way I hope they will. But it is worth a shot. I need a place to vent since I am with out a therapist or anything for now. I am on my own and maybe okay with it. Ask me when I have more in my system. 

I need to free write. 

My love letters to 1000 girls are spread over this city. The thick phlegm of masturbation, the sound of fucking ones self to the face of a stranger, and I am windblown. Shoes that dirty beds from walking on these piss green streets. Gutters choking with disease, to the blossoming trees bursting with perfumed birds. These love letters I have are burned into this shit city. I smiled my way through sonnets only to see them paved with chipped nails deep into scratched dirt. The names of never lovers. And I cry over small bits of chalk that once held so much word and promise. Now wasted on dillusional configures etched into these goddamn sidewalks. When I am done, I play hop scotch on them. The clinking bodies of charcoal. I sail down avenues knowing they have felt these words, scarred backs and I am going to do this again.