Rules

A sonnet is fourteen lines, seven times
Two — and since I squeaked in just
At the end of 19-double-seven, I must
Have developed an affinity for the rhymes
That can only fit in lines assigned to perfection’s
Numeral doubled. I also love rules.
They were the things that proved my ego’s tools
To construct an edifice designed for pain deflection.
See, if I get it right, then I’m in–
In where, I don’t know, but I’m not
Out. That would hurt and cause a lot
Of sensation labeled fear. Rules = win.
That’s why (though I floundered) I liked ballet.
No one telling you to improv–just do what they say.