The Angst of a Poet

So,
The wind came and went,
A rushing whisper that stirred up my thoughts
Just as the wave washes small treasures up
All that was produced was a short burst of creativity;
Before the lid snapped shut on the word-hoard
And any further findings were unattainable
I tried to reach, but the ladder toppled over
and I landed in the sands of time, blank time,
that place devoid of inspiration, oh how I loathe it
it irks me so, to the point at which I seize fistfuls of my own hair
Upturn inkwells and send parchment flying
And then the storm subsides, and I am quiet as a still, glassy lake,
a frosted mere, the serenity of the mist hiding the slow, ever-burning
longing, a yearning that cannot be quenched, until every drop of ink, every semblence
of creative thought is extracted from the depths of my restless mind.
will it ever be enough?