Frozen Hearth

Over and over again, they tell me.
"Just write!"
"It's because you need to write more!"
"Write, write, write!"
"You'll feel better!"
"It always makes you feel better!"

And if it doesn't this time?
What do I do then?
Just sit in my own puddle of tears,
Slowly drowning?

Over and over again, they tell me.
"You're just an emo punk."
"A dumb teenager."
"Someone who just whines and writes poetry."
"Whine, whine, whine."
"You'll get over it."

How do I know that?
That's right, I don't.

How can I write anything when everything that is created by me is so dumb?
It's emotional.
It's whiny.
It's stupid.

I understand!
But, what you apparently can't see,
Is it is just me.
And if me is who I'll be,
I'll have you know,
I'll still be free.

It's not my fault you've covered my lamppost with snow.
It's not my fault that the wires are frozen.
The fire glaciated and shattered.

How long will it take to melt?