My finger army

Angelo sat at his desk. His fingers poised liked so many little soldiers ready to strike down the enemy that was his writers block. But every time they went to type, fear would over come them and Angelo would sigh with frustration sweeping them through his unruly chestnut mane. Making the tiny soldiers run drills through his hair. Then they would mournfully return to their post. Warily staring down the enemy once again.