A Well Run Dry

There is nothing that makes fury more furious than impotence.

But really. Putting aside gender metaphor, is there nothing more that infuriates you than knowing that you are right, but not having the words to express your rightness?

I feel much like many have before me, an unwilling soldier in an unwanted war. But all I can do, as I fire my rifle at endless enemy after endless enemy, and stab at the unending necks and chests if of my foes with my bayonet, is continue.

I really do feel as though my options have run dry.

Has the well of my creativity run dry so soon? And if so, where to did it vanish?