creative constipation

I'm finding my inability to put pen to pad and fingers to keyboard more and more frustrating lately. For whatever reason I have been plagued, no scratch that blessed, no, plagued by an influx of deep, inciteful, original ideas, and some very decent rhymes, only to have them lost in translation from my mind to my fingers to the pad or computer screen. I've been in a very weird space the last few weeks of absolute vulnerability to the spectrum of emotions. I've run the gamut from bliss to near depression, everywhere inbetween, and all the way back again. It has resulted in an avalanche of life wandering , philosophical pondering, thoughts/question/concerns about the human condition, as well as the Tyler Boeyink condition. Unfortunately for me, and the 3 people that read this, these thoughts have not been able to make the jump to tangibility. At one point I considered myself a decently talented and creative writer, but recently have fallen far short of my own expectations and standards. I'm not sure if I'm just getting rusty, if I've killed too many brain cells, or maybe the talent was never there to begin with, but the goal is to get the creative juices (and the sexual reproductive juices) flowing, and start putting some more shit out. Even if it is just that, shit.