• My ink runs low,
    The pen grows dull.
    This paper is blank,
    And my mind is null.

    I've run out of ideas,
    This is harder then you'd think.
    Not all of us can do it,
    With simply a blink.

    As fun as it is,
    It is rather a pain.
    I'd much rather not do this,
    Nor write ever again.

    But the Art of the Pen,
    'Tis my only way out.
    My only escape,
    And yet I still pout.

    Why do I complain,
    About my life when it's perfect?
    I call this my punishment,
    I call it my derilict.

    When it is rather heavenly,
    For me writing is bliss.
    If you gave me the universe,
    I wouldn't give up this.