Writers block is an odd thing, I have so many thoughts and emotions yet no words to explain them, no rhyming words in the dictionary of my mind to roll of my tongue. I sit and try to stop my hands from shaking, the sadness is ready to shoot from my fingertips into any willing victim. Writers block is like a child who is attempting to build a castle of blocks yet cannot find the right way to position the blocks in a graceful enough way. My hands shake but deny the brain the satisfaction of moving over the keys, they will not allow me to accept my feelings “No,” they say “the numbness will take care of that for you.” I scream at my hands to move, to type the words I need to let out before they spill out of my eyes onto my mothers shoulder, before they break through my skin reborn as the color red. Please, I beg my hands and my brain to open up, please let me love how her cheek feels against my palm, please let me sleep, please let these blocks be an open gate not walls any longer. I sit and write in an almost empty classroom, I am invisible here. My hands allow me to move because my brain is telling me at the same time “No, they do not care, they do not know you are a prisoner.” My body is cruel to me, but I suppose it is payback for the way I have deprived it from all things good. I hope in my years, my body and I will become one.