A writer knows

 He had a drink and became a writer
became infatuated like I always did
Always happened upon a convenient muse
one almost illusive dying for use
what a long draw on that fat joint
confused yet pleased to be lazy

stopping to smell the flowers
to see the sights
never comfort in a nine to five
or a home of portraits

so fixed so stationary
so the glass fills itself
the pen meets paper the alcoholic
chomps at the bit

screaming just to get it out
while distorted pride and sense of false honor
would presuppose some scenario
for those many generations 

nostalgia bulemic
requires so many beautiful shrines
pages are turned the brain changes gear
the alcoholic apologizes for his vice

Divorce a repeat destination
with a cold wind that relives a hot head
gives a thick numbing sense of closure
before the imminent depression

enters the writers ear
makes a nest and creates a dreamlike form of depression
half crippling infrequently inspiring toward some new piece
A good reason to down bottles

a grannystep toward solitude
then flaring back into heresay
with a new fiancee about half your age
over enthusiasm to spark the genius in you

the half day hangovers
Punishing you for long years
a short story a novel
a stroke or infartion