Writer's Block

My pen is poised upon a crisp white sheet of paper. My hand but quivers slightly, and the droplet of ink that has gathered at the nib is the only thing that now adorns a canvas that in the hands of one more worthy would extole joys and sorrows man never thought to feel. How comes it that a brain teeming with the life of ideas and ideals, buzzing with the knowledge imparted by heightened senses, and aching with the swell of each new fruit that finds no route through which to delight at every bite, how comes it that a brain so fueled hath not the power to bend a limb to its will? How now to harvest these grains that mine own fingers know not how to reap? Were it possible that my hand cease this disobedience, and pluck and store the hoard for future comfort long, or will a sickly sweet stench pervade the air but not for the last?