Writer's Block

Writer’s Block

A coldness, a white, blistering

fury of ice has entered my

brain making it hard to compose

and even harder to pry my

fingers apart to pound on the keys.

I feel lackadaisical; I feel

compromised and uninspired.

I just want to sleep.

My bed becomes my refuge

from the winter sores which

cut my cuticles apart raw

purple and my body clatters

and chimes roughly,

my chestbones like a tribal

drum, and my skin the composition

of ash; times like this make

hibernation severely underrated.

I worry that I’ll never get

out of this cave, this black hole.

I scream and kick at night, looking

upwards and cursing silently at the

smog sky wishing someone would

make the sun come out and allow

my brain to cultivate itself again.