To Be a Sonnet Or Not To Be

I am looking down at the empty page, Lost, all ideas of what to scribe on it, My thoughts have been trapped locked inside a cage Preventing me from writing a sonnet. A female Shakespeare I’m certainly not, There is no E. B. Browning fame for me; I visualise love, passionate, hot, But my metre’s wrong, words have to be free To light up the starlight, soften moonbeam, Put ripples of delight on life’s ocean, To silver-sketch the meandering stream, No iambic dictate to emotion. Yet I can see that at times it makes sense If I conform - there is no recompense.