Crunchy hair on my head  and broken springs in my bed moan in pain or maybe pleasure. Stretch-out and breathe-in, blue-ink marks upon yellow.       The words from my pen, no longer make sense, don’t sound pretty either. “Who really cares about looks anyway?”  They flex their arms, trying to  impress, to no avail. They refuse to work, live off of strike. The words have left me without a dime to my faded jeans and queasy stomach. Words clatter against yellow pages against blue drywall. Purple veins pound in red eyes,  they were all I had. I yell and scream words I don’t understand, or at least don’t want to. They slam the doors and lock me out.