On The Sonnet

I couldn’t write a sonnet, no matter how
I tried. It’s difficult to chop and fit
my thoughts, my free expression thoughts, right now,
right here, to such a rigid form. My wit
is not the tight–arse type. My lines are full
when I am done, no less, and never end
at some exactly counted syllable.
What’s said is key, not how. It’s just a trend,
this fancy verse, for populists; it’s dropped
as rot in modern poetry—and how
could anybody think that tightly cropped
and strictly managed words could ever vowel
my spoken thoughts, my blurted crude opines,
and crop the lot to only fourteen lines?