Stuck in a Rut

I am a wagon wheel, on a dirt road, after a hard rain, carrying a heavy load.
I am a hand on the keys, hesitating, unable to even flinch.
I am the word rewritten again and again, line after line scratched out to nothing, ready to become something.
I am a brick wall, between a canvas and a brush, between a needle and a cloth, between these words and my pen.
I am impenetrable, immovable, inexorable.
I am one room away from the music, one day away from the sunshine, one meal away from the feast.
I am on the precipice of greatness, but I have stepped too far from the edge.
I am a statue, an effigy, a representation of what I should be, but I am stone still and waiting.
I am a wagon wheel, sunken deep in the rut of my own struggling, trying everything to break free.