Writer

Silence came on to his pen which made it to the pad of paper.  Blankness it all he wrote sitting there as if something would happen.  But the sparkling white pad shined back at him as if to mock- to tease- to contempt him.
“It’s the paper that is doing this to me!”  He exclaimed.  “I never had any problems writing before.”
Ah but before: words, sentences, paragraphs flowed like a river with no end.  Just the mere mention of something struck of a paragraph or two at least and then suddenly the page was crawling with symbols, letters and works as if an ant farm had just been molested.
He scratched his head and took another shot of JD.  The illing effect of it were begin to take a toll on his digestive system: pain shot through his intestines.  He was thinking the more he could drink the less the pain would matter.  So he did another shot- but this time it tried to come back up into his mouth.  Gasping for air he jumped up from his seat and straiten himself out.
“FUCK!” he screamed as he decided to get something to drink to get that sour taste of his mouth.
Knowing that a lot of writers used drugs to keep up their writing production was on his mind.  Hoping that this too would work in his favor was his reasoning.  He knows he can write.  He knows he has written.  So it would make logical sense that he’d be able to write in the future.  He just needed some prodding.
He was settled again at his paper; the sound of the analog clock clicked away as he stared blankly.  The alcohol was hitting him quite unexpectedly and his mind started to travel.  He was thinking of sex, happiness, holding a woman close to him, the smell of perfume and the smell of love.  And then he awoke, minutes later, again staring the page.  He started to laugh.

“If only I could find the words.  It’s so hard.”  He thought about it for another moment, opened the bottle of JD, took a swig, and put it down.  The pain was there again but he didn’t care.  Back he was thinking of the woman and feeling happiness.  And then he passed out.