Sprawled across the sofa

IKEA alarm clock, repetitive ticking

The paper stared back at him

Still blank

Gnawing at the stubby pencil

Teeth marks engraved into the wood

Mangled and almost useless

Mind empty

Perhaps a simple sonnet

But to who or what?

He should call her, for inspiration

Distractions

He paces around the room

Slumps over on a chair, foot hanging

Fiddles with fingers

Still nothing

If only inspiration was as a stream

A constant flow of ideas

How simple life would be

But a dream

He weeps in fury

No quick! Save those passionate tears

Perhaps my sadness will produce greatness

For my readers