What I was trying to say

There is a desk from which to write.
Stands with four legs and four sides
At the top and meets at right angles
And is made of wood.
Like a hand burrowing through tight 
Sheets and under covers to discover
A part of the body the pen moves unencumbered
Writing of you. Then, there's an image needed.
Something the mind can capture like an eye,
A thing just as sharp as a camera can describe.
Then, at the end there is a poem,
A bright poetess expressed in a feminist role,
Somewhere you may otherwise have never gone,
To hell or upwards towards that Northern star
Like a candle pointing in the home.