I hold this pen and look at it suspiously,

A sheet of paper lays quietly on the table,
Waiting as it has for the past six years.
I've thought of doing and have not done.
The paper looks so clean and white,
It means a shame to spoil it with my scribble,
That pretends to be a masterpiece.
Yes I am probably going to sweat blood,
And probably get writer's bottom as well,
The writer's block has got to go.
For although I won't make a fortune,
It is neccesary for me to write,
To remain sane and hopeful,
In this society that recognises only,
Proffessions that require you to work for someone else.
Yes, I am going to sweat blood,
But I need to,
I need to write like I need to breathe,
And my payment is in the best writer's backside.