Poetry; The tireless construction

An open window,
an open door,
a place where no one says no more.
But it's not quite as easy as it seems,
to make your ends justify the means.
I sit in the room all by myself,
with my notebook below me my greatest wealth.
If I could just get this poem out of my head,
I would be satisfied, then I could go to bed.
But I stare at the page because I don't know what to write
so I scribble in the margin, until a new word comes into sight.
I make a mental list, do these two ryhme?
Yes! It's perfect, it worked this time.
I look at the page, there's more black than white,
so I go toward the wall to turn off the light.
But no I'm not done, it's not time yet.
I will not sleep until this poem is set.
As as I sit there waiting for inspiration to hit,
I find myself wanting to throw a fit.
Because I'm stuck, I can't think I'm at a block.
All I can focus on is the wall's noise, tick tock,
because I can't quite get the words on the page,
they are stuck inside of me in a locked cage.
Then the haze clears and I can finally see,
my poem can be anything I want it to be.
Maybe light as a feather,
or tough as leather.
It's all mine, I can do whatever.
But I'm going to stop writing and take my bow,
read it, don't, like it ,love it anything, it's yours now.