Poetry and form

A poet I will never be with ease,
Though rhymes and rhythmic tools confound me not.
I order words in lines just as I please,
But find that eloquence cannot be taught.
I yearn to put my passion on the page,
To move the soul and mind with what I write,
To pen soliloquies worthy of stage,
To bring to cry, to laugh, to love, to fight.
I've lived these things, but cannot find a way
To make them real and living once again.
My words, mechanical, precise, just say
Exactly what they say, not what I mean.
Farewell, then, structure, lines perfect in form.
To speak good poetry, look past the norm.