Laughter, tinkling over here, booming in the corner,
Rebounds off the platinum-white walls.
Under the weight of such boisterous noise,
The scratching of an ink pen hides.
He is stock-still, brows furrowed,
Lost in thought.
Thumb and forefinger, holding the tool,
Slowly...slowly...slowly turning the pen.
Rolling it back and forth, over and over, the clip
Lightly brushing against his skin.
A tap on paper here, another tap there,
Speckling the paper with sticky, black ink.
Bringing the pen to his tongue,
Licking, poking,
Oblivious to the slight pain.
Suddenly, he's done it,
Succeeded,
Smashed through the indomitable wall
That is writer's block.