a curse of mythical proportions

i am constantly writing. every day, every minute in my head. collecting stories, formulating sentences, waxing poetically. a person i pass, i song i hear, the way in which light bounces off each object in my view. in my mind they all become a glorious symphony of language. but when i try to immortalize them on paper, they become a cacophonous jumble. i wish i were a writer, i long for it actually. i read the work of others and know it's how mine should be, could be, or at least how it is in my mind. but any attempt is met with insurmountable frustration and is quickly abandoned. i guess it's my personal cassandra-esque complex.