I do not speak for my words hit the paper, scrolling wide curves. Fingers cracking for they cannot keep speed of thoughts aching to be visualized. It’s messy, unreadable, fixed, fruity, sometimes too readable and stained bleeding letter to letter. I write. Ferocious, like feeding stray. Words barking, howling, growling. I write to release the beast within. I write to give it away. It’s not mine but it comes to me in waking moments, awkward timings, and stirs me from slumber. Something claws out, is it mine? I don’t know. Whose is it then? I cannot point. Words come out like a birth, from fleshed walls. My head spins, bony-fingered curls question the parade of perceived truths. What they say. Who is this they? I don’t know they. They are not me. They don’t live here. They don’t know me. For they is the make-up of they within. They, so clever in sneaks, sniffing out your weaknesses, your fears, and self-doubts. And this they only breeds in fear. And then pen trips on the edge of paper, there’s no finish, no room to write, so it lingers and waits as though your insides are bait. I am not bait. I’ll not flourish in such breeding grounds. Or torture myself in such a cage. For I will release. Empty myself as I am. I pull myself out. Pulling. Pulling. Rushing. And I’ll not cower, I’ll feast exactly as I am, filling myself, marking my territory in my own primal way.