A starved artist, and a frantic hunt for metaphors

The circles under my eyes are as dark as the craters on the moon.
My eyes are spitting fire.
I need a moment of rest, but my trembling hand holds a half chewed pen which used to birth
masterpieces once upon a time.
Now it sits there, barren.
There's nothing coming out of it.
The fog in my brain is taking a long time to clear.
How long has it been since my stomach has desperately been trying to get my attention?
Nine hours? Maybe ten. I'll never know.
I'm looking at the wall, then the window.
Trying to find inspiration in the speck of dust that has gathered on the trophy on my rack.
'Best poet', it used to say on that trophy. The dust has left just 'poet' now.
This monotony is like the siren of the ambulance that I hear outside my window, almost daily.
Ugh, I can't even produce decent metaphors anymore to explain what I'm feeling.
My creativity has almost starved to death.
It needs nourishment, and I don't have it.
It's slowly dying, and somewhere, I am, too.
I'm hanging on by the loose end of a rope, the other end of which I have no idea about.
Will I find what I'm looking for? Maybe. Maybe not.
But what I will keep doing is continue to hunt for sensible metaphors and poetic clichés because
that is what will keep me alive.
In the words I've barely scribbled on my almost empty page, I will live.