Bricks are made with the color of love.
Shaded by the crayons you left behind for me.
Bricks make up the wall that I call writers block.
Bricks comprise the road that my writing follows when it seems to travel on it's own.
I wanted to use the bricks to build a castle in the sky
You used them to play a game of Jenga with my heart.
Now the bricks are colored with my blood.
I don't need your crayons anymore.
-Insolence is Bliss