Confessions of a Novice

I am not a poet who wishes to write
The words are not mine,
That scribbles into a rhyme.
The ink is not real,
Words shown through the dark.

I am not a poet who wishes to write,
One day as I sat; an idea struck my mind.
I twisted it into a piece,
Which was then denied-
Causing me a fury; which rage into a fire.

I am not a poet who wishes to write
As a memento for my desire,
I am gifted with a pen,paper and ply
But soon they lay rested,
As I fell totally dejected.

I am not a poet who wishes to write
But, Ah! an image is again formed,
And the pulp is again stormed
The words become processed
And I ask;"Am I possessed?"