Sonnets are Hard

I have no flair for formal poetry

The iamb eludes me, and my lines are

suffocated, yoked and choked by trochee.

My syllable count is off, and by far.

What’s more, I have no eye nor ear for sound

or shape, for that matter. On the page, that 

is. My voice is too rickety, I’ve found,

too loose for pentameter, and too flat

To justify breaking the rules so much.

So here it is, my failed stab at the style

So loved by Billy Wigglesticks and such

greats I’ve read for years. It’s so versatile.

For them, not me. They mastered the sonnet.

For me though? I'd rather have forgone it.