Frustrated at Poetry

Am I a poet? What does it take?

I’m certainly no Dickinson or Blake,

no Hopkins with his oozing oil,

no Yeats in his Byzantium

to keep a drowsy emperor awake.

Just me, with slouching words

and nothing of real

consequence to say.

So why put pen to paper,

hands to laptop keys?

Just that old desire

to turn a crumb of thought

into words that will inspire.

But dang it all, a decent image 

have I nought!