wordslinger7

There were people, lost: in my mind. They mingled, festered in my unsaid truths. The things I decided against saying—too rude, too honest. I want to cover the walls with them. Vibrant spray paint. My targets will walk past, every day. They will never know it's mine. There's protection in anonymity. Similar to a large concert, when one finds their identity lost in the flow of a crowd: it's okay to hurt, to punch someone in the gut--you're just another face in the crowd. It doesn't matter(who is to blame?). My murals would be there, unnoticed: unable to hold the blame. Many would be horrible, painful.  Messes: dripping, congealing into bro