Neater Meter, Almost a Sonnet

I hope someday to write a perfect sonnet instead of this absurd excuse for meter, with gentle touch of elegance upon it and not insipid rhymes as brain cells peter. Another time I’ll switch on my computer then type away to keyboard’s friendly clicks, I’ll finish with a flourish, a sharpshooter, no longer this dispenser of old tricks. But maybe I am still a hapless dreamer whose trite expressions drone to no effect, a man without a muse, a hopeless schemer, still not an ounce of talent to detect. When scansion throughout does not read well; pray God, grant freedom from iambic hell.