Nobody else writes poems like I do.
The fixed-form poet's art is old and dry.
It limits creativity? Not true.
But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by.
Oh wait--there are yet writers springing free
On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends.
Alright: nobody writes in verse like we.
We write like madmen, leaving be those trends
In poetry contemporary. This:
The art of the archaic is our love.
And yet we write in newer forms and kiss
The modern in our own way. Read thereof
As I do, and bear witness to myself
That no one writes like anybody else.
postscript
For day 7. A treatise on the dangers of generalizing and a celebration of the diversity of modern poetry. (This is my 89th sonnet. I was wrong; I've got awhile yet until 100.)