Sonnet Troubles

We all know my chance of being a poet Is shot, way past the point of no return But who am I to just give up the fight It would be no fun… and yes, I know it And I must confess on how the heart yearns How can I make sense of this sudden flight? This miraculous dream that I fear to shout Ah, I am such a miserable lout See; look here as the structure may fail About a syllable short on that line ^ Perhaps the lady of tomorrow will hail These awful skills of mine, from the divine Roses are red, Violets are not Write a poem of love? I just cannot