Writer's block

The aroma of stale coffee,
The only thing he'll drink.
Scattered, Scrunched up paper,
Blotched with dark blue ink.

Fingers slowly tapping,
The quill's still running dry.
Ticking of the mantle's clock,
A heavy, hindered sigh.

A mind filled with so much wonder,
But quickly ideas start to plunder,
Awake again 'til early dawn,
Conjuring still, a written storm.

Many the strong black drink,
But still his eyes slowly sink,
Drifting into steady sleep,
Heavy rest, long and deep.

Awake once more, pen still in hand,
Fresh ideas awakened,
Smiling, he scribes at speed,
The Writer's block has shakened.