simply can't find them and make them stay

I come back to this thought time and time again: In words are my wings, my release. In them could be my redemption.
But for the moment I live in the prison of my barren page haunted by my thoughts that do not surface.

I feel words locked up inside of me, knotted up, turning over, restless in the night, knocking at the door, strangling me and choking my voice.
I wish I could release them into the night sky and watch them soar up to the moon obscuring its pure whiteness with an even greater luminosity.

Is there a goddess that helps one unlock ones words? Lead me to her someone so that I may plead at her feet.

Damned words. I feel them well when I read a line, walk alone. They come to me not just in solitude but also in the midst of life. They jump out at me: one or more from a page that mean more than they seem, hold the promise of a deeper and new thought. These are living and secret pathways to another world that could exist on a different page if I found the words that could grow into a page and perhaps that page leads to another book. Sometimes some words band together to conjure an image or feeling that was unintended by the author. Just a wisp, mind you. Almost as if you watched a cloud that seemed to form a certain shape in the cloud and then reorganized itself so that the shape became invisible. They can flit away in an instant or fade back into being just ordinary words in the multitude unless I catch them like butterflies in a net. Or perhaps like fish? Or do they, I wonder, cast the bait at me from within the page?
Gulp!