A Musing

Industrial fan sits on my window sill
Glaring flourescent light hangs above my head
Spreading depressing white light wherever it can
The wood of the furniture a yellowish brown
Carpet is rough, scratchy beneath my feet
Bare walls, uncomfortable in their nakedness
Try to hide behind a few sparse pictures, but fail to succeed
And not a poem comes to mind
Not one poetic thought. No trace of beauty.
Does the poem create the beauty, or does the beauty create the poem?