Here is my own amateruism displayed:
A hundred thousand words without structure,
And thus no human voice beating below;
No English cadence we can recognise.
Hence the new challenge: to cookie-cut ideas;
So as to make them fit someone else's mould.
How could it ever be otherwise, though?
For nature's laws are immutable, too.
The calibration of the proton's weight,
And the metre of writing alike commute.
Now I suffer the dead, constraining hand,
Applying its brakes to creative thought.
Subjugated by the pentameter
Iambic is too much for the present.
