A Pome a Day for a Year

I seem to be empty right now.
I want to write something, and lord, have I committed text
to screen (as I am on a computer)
and yet the words linger within my cortex.

They teeter on the edge of brain matter, 
refusing to tumble down my aching fingers 
and into the world via the keyboard.

“Could you please come down out of there
and make your way over to the digital ink?
You are being very rude!”

I chastise my creation bank 
and attempt a withdrawal.

How on earth am I in debt?  

This thing is unlimited, surely?
The mind fathomless, imagination borderless!

My engine must be broken
or maybe I am an electric vehicle,
needing a swift charge to the cranium
or perhaps some kind of lithium meal.