the blue keeps her numb
fifty milligrams of azure that somehow
dulls down all senses
and keeps the writer locked away.
she emerges, all hushed,
at the most inconvenient times
whispering secrets of ghosts past
and weaving a web that leaves me stuck;
frozen, scorned, relentless.
and she wastes her time on anything
to keep the words from hitting paper.
because when the ink takes form
it always leads to reckless thoughts
that five years later show a hint of
insanity
that can not be swallowed away
