Is this a Poem?

I grab a pen and paper or type in front of my laptop,

The blank sheet stares me blankly and the cursor mocks me-

my mind feels like floating,

My right hand stroke letters and glide each time an idea pops out,

I hit the keys with my patient fingers,

the set of letters form words, an incoherent sentence.

My hands, my fingers battle with my mind,

Which word to use, which thought is to be concretized

Which lines are to be enjambed

What words need to be cancelled out,

The idea needs to be squeezed like a sponge

The excess, unimportant details

Should let go are emancipated by the passionate hands

to have a compact and tight poem.

The images should be worked out,

Details of colors, smell and vision should be felt or can be imagined by the reader,

It should be devoid of the author’s feelings,

The experience while one reads it should

Have an effect and linger to one’s mind,

In a given moment or longer…

The third stanza lists the things I learned from Poetry and criticism classes.

I am trying to apply them to this crap,

I am aware that a poem should speak for itself,

But it seems that my words are falling like withered leaves of a tree-

It losses its strength.

A failure to make a poem,

A failure to give birth to words-

an attempt to Ars Poetica.