Regurgitating secrets
onto sleek marble flooring
through the endless hall,
echoing in thier ears
like a broken record; repeating
and jumping back to
start it again.

Starting like the fresh blood
pumping into my veins
and out the cuts on my hands
that hole in my head
and down the side of the knife
impaled between the north and south  
of my core *****.
The so called "key" to living.
torturing us, wanting us to "love"
wanting us to "hate"
wanting us to pretty much "want".

But what do i know?
I'm just another writer
aiming for success
trying to decipher the
broken logic of lust and love
of trust and friendship.

TRUST?! is that what we need?
To make this world
actually rely on another
to possibly
help with thier troubles
and discover the other?

Or if trust was real
and there was no such thing
as a backstabber,
i wouldn't be in this hall
lying face first
in a pool full
of ****** lies
and truthful *****.