Drip, Drip, Drip goes the ink from my quill. Splotching the paper as I sit frustrated with myself. Scribble and scratch as the writers block stifles me. I push to find the words but they will not come. I squeeze the pen in frustration only to stain my face with the blood of my trade. I then come to understand how easily the ink can flow and that for their work a poet must sometimes bleed.