Not a Precision Tool

I keep meaning to come out and write something, but it seems the words are forever going to be elusive, writhing out of the grip of the pen which struggles to pin them down to the page. Instead, I sit and think about what I want to say, letting the thought remain abstract, a vague feeling in my chest, rather than a series of imprecise words tied together in awkward, ugly knots. One day I might be able to touch them and have them rearrange in the right order, but it seems that today is not that day.