Okay, the title is kind of misleading because I'm not sure it exists -maybe so far I'm been lucky. But the last couple of days I've hit, if not a wall, then a stuck door. Just haven't felt like writing. But like most things just getting on and doing it usually works. I freewrote tonight with no theme in mind and when writing this poem I still know what it is. I'm going to call it ambiguous.
Cold. Blackened feet
burned. You sit in your
ice house - your
past held frozen in the
walls. Rippling reflections behind
your back. But hugging your knees
you just don't see.
Shiver. Because even as you bemoan
this cold, you know that greedily you
gorge it whole. To eat your fill - purge, and then
binge again. Wretchedly wringing out
every drop of bile - you spasm. Until
you feel alive- skin burning and
the past is just another
fossil. 20,000 years in