Desperate Attempt at Making a sound

The poet's plight is a word dearth, a void whose girth spans whole paragraphs, blankets and snuffs out any flame or spark that might've grown to a blazing, glorious idea. I want my words to flow, silk sheets of syllables the color of red wine and red wine's drunken, romantic, maroon-hued warmth. Not only do I want my words to dance gracefully, but I want them to be orators on their own; I want the electronic pages of my phone notebook to become amphitheaters in which I may present, elaborate, and debate new discoveries in the fields of my own experiences. In here there is life independent of breath and blood.
That life, however, is dying. My words are becoming sluggish, uncoordinated, limp and lazy things that don't communicate well with each other. The poetry I hoped to kindle here I'm afraid I have nearly suffocated with artificial means of inspiration. A colorless but all-too-real curtain has fallen from my windows of perception and lies on the floor in a lump of meaninglessness. Now I see the bright harsh day, day and night, watching life happen outside the window. And that's it, just watching. I feel I'm inclined to snatch up that fallen curtain and.....do what with it? Isn't this the very moment the thinkers before me talked of, the symbolic opening of one's perceptions? Either I'm wrong and I chose an inappropriate metaphor, or they hyped up something that they didn't know anything about.
Is there poetry here? It's not for me to know