Writer's block

[roselightfairy]

Or, I turned a dumb extended metaphor into a bad poem...

I am empty.
I am scraped clean, an
ice cream scoop rotated around
all the rounded edges of me, scraping out all the good - if there ever was any to begin with. I am
hollowed, nothing but frozen air and those remnants
unscraped, lingering traces of possibility burning
in the freezer to crystalline sparks, sharp
to the touch and to the tongue, all sweetness
fled.
I am des(s)erted
by my own passion, scooped out until only the worthless bits remain, clinging
to the edges of a soul that's just -
well, it's just taking up space in the freezer, come on, are you really gonna eat that?
It's time to give up
on this hollow not-cardboard shell, sides caving in
from the effort to pry off the top, bent
half-crushed, sits
on the counter until those crystals
melt into milk-water slush
you consider rinsing out, but then - are you really sure this container can be recycled? Is it worth even looking up?
It is only worth tossing
into the half-full garbage can, crushing
half-heartedly
with another piece of trash, and walking away, apologizing
faintly
silently
for taking up space in the landfill.