It occurs to me that I did not provide the answer to this riddle; it’s “pen.”

Once again, I write a little song
While sitting at my desk. I have not long
In which to do the task, but there’s no wrong
In spending idle moments shaping lines
That some might read while sipping at their wines
Or in which some might see un-thought-of signs
That all may yet be well. There is a hope
In writing, though each written piece might grope
Ineptly towards some unseen hanging rope
By which it might itself and readers haul
From out that pit into which many fall:
Despair. Each verse becomes another call
To stand up, rise up, take up noble task,
Give all therein; nothing more is asked.

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