Writers Block

The rapid taps
Of the fingers
Capitalize
Rat-a-tat-tat
On the keyboard,
Frustrating the flap
Of the brain,
Making it crack
Wide open,
Like a map
That is
Flat with ideas,
Empty of sap;
Especially when
Remnants of Jack Daniels
Wrap around each step
By step; his stairway to heaven;
Causing each thought to snap,
That heavy tapestries droop from his brows
And his back bow low with respect
To his sore muse, his shoulders
Paperweight solid;
Trapping the writer at his desk,
Slowly breaking his neck.