Unending writer's block

I try to write, but it is done in vain. It is done so that I can feel like I accomplished something today. And what did I accomplish but agony, agony at the realization that I cannot write. I cannot write like a paraplegic cannot walk again. Unlike an infant, who will eventually be able to recite the alphabet, I will never escape from the writer’s block that covers me from the brighter height of prestige, like the boulder preventing the hiker from getting out of a hole. It just rolled over it, like my inability to write just decided to appear one fine day. What year? 1998? 1999? Nineteen-ninety six was a good year for creativity for me. I spawned a dozen poems about death, and received acclaim from such societies as The National Library of Poetry.