Writers' Block

Ink stained fingers, reaching, plucking, for something, grabbing at straws, ideas from nothing, if so can be called my mind, not yet forthcoming. Thoughts stretched to breaking; fragmenting, becoming lost, forgotten, relics that lie dormant and unreachable in locked realms in the recesses of consciousness. A word lingers, unbidden - attached - something intangible; a possibility, a hint of a maybe; flex it, bend it to no avail. The thought is gone and only a suggestion remains, too vague, too elusive, unusable, shrug it off, reaching again.