Impotent Artist

Every time I try to write i am stuck.
A wall of doubt and misery overcome me.
I look to the writers of the past.
How can I ever create something like this?
How could I ever think I could say what they wanted to say?
I feel stuck in a dream where  cannot move or escape the monsters.
The image is in my head but it cannot direct my hands.
The paper is blank, the canvas white as snow.
It is all there, but forever it will stay.
Quick rewards of pleasure and pain ensue when I write something i like.
A minute later it is garbage.
I am fifty pages in then it doesn't make sense.
The canvas is filled but the last stroke is wrong.
Bukowski's grave says "Never Try".
Yoda says "Do or Do not".
There either "is" or "isn't"
I wrestle with life and death on the page everyday.
I weather the storm in my own head.
The angel and devil taunting and encouraging me.
Throw another page in the trash.
Burn another piece in the pit.
Watch the ashes rise.
Sit in the rain a little bit longer.