Ruby red lips are stitched tighter than tight,

The only color on this ghost of a figure.

Ghosts are made up of words never to be said.

Gloved hands pat the air,

Bare feet stomp at the ground,

A silent figure turning in circles to find a way out of nothing.

Nothing is nothing, not even a peep.

The walls are invisible,

The ceiling is clear,

The floor is untouchable,

Every surface inches away from frantic fingers,

Deprived of pencilpenpaperlife for so long they are forgetting.

Forgetting is to run out of things to say.

Forgetting how to trill their tongue,

How to move their lips,

How to form words with their still throat.

Words are beautifullovelyuniquelife.

Without the light of words, the box grows dark.

Darkness is blackness, and blackness is despair.

The blackness is sticky,

Made of unused ink and typed letter slipping off the page and melting into a useless pool that holds your limbs down.

Down to your sides so you cannot struggle.

These ghosts covered in black are trapped inside a block,

Nothing to say and nothing to write.

A dead victim, kilt from the disease know as Writer’s Block.