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.