There's something sonnets do to make a poet
Desire to write about true love. Red roses
Will bloom in every verse. What makes us show it,
These common feelings, images, and poses?
I don't want nightingales to flock my page --
I've never even heard nor seen the bird.
But neither do I want to merely rage
Against the form -- to do so is absurd.
I choose to write in form to increase choice
Of things that I could say -- I knew the rules
Would make it possible to find my voice,
To hone from rugged stones more perfect jewels.
What I'd not known was that using this form
Would dictate content to make its own storm.