What to say after not blogging for 4 months

The cell as a form of inspiration

Your angularities are pinned
with cloth woven
in mauve. Plastic
tops and tails your limits,
my confinement. There
is no door: numbers
in sequences bar
my exit. In the distance
an oblong of budding leaves
tease me - look how we break
from our wood; look
how we swing in air,
each puff fresh! I hate
them. I hate the dry square
of hard silk patterns
that observes me,
the clicking blocks
that magic letter
after letter after
letter into my head;
the screaming ghost
beside me that whispers
when I cuddle it. They scare
me, and payday is another
sentence away.