cancer to the gut.

and with the echo I let myself in, sitting amongst the posters and lint i've grown up around, letting myself believe in the colours they printed and tints that graced the floor.

Was is this room? My old living space?
The area in which I insured my trust with the rest of the world, that no matter how bad it got that this little section of walls and flooring was mine?

Fuck, I rent for christ's sake.

I wish I could write for me, I think it still comes out of a cliche.
Not that it's fair to give a judgement halfway through one's prose.
That just makes the puzzle of written piece jumbled, like there's more to the words than just the formation of each letter.

Writing to me is an honesty,
the one you can't speak because we're to immature.
the one you can move to because the beat is off.
the one you can't remember because you've gotten blind over the years.

Writting to me is like a stab,
It goes, maby not as quick as you'd like, but it goes through, slowly taking pieces of ideas from the wound you've made and takes them along to the rest of the body, staining each new idea that prints itself.
Once the knife reaches the other side your already done, and like marauders we look over our work again, just to make sure you didn't miss any crucial arteries.

writing is like an autopsy to a piece of paper, and the victim has a stab wound.