Authority

I'm having a hard time with this poem. It's
a bit on the rigid side. Inflexible, the rhyme
schemes against me, and wins. Wins, if I'm not
mistaken. I don't know how to make it looser,
make it work, work in my favor. Hell, it's in its
own favor I want to make it work! But me

and this poem

do not see eye to eye on what its own
best interest is. I, however, am author. Therefore
I will crush its little petulancies and insubordinations
down, I will pull the splinterlike wires of infelicitousness
out from its skin (where they somehow got stuck, running along
just under like a horror movie) and daub its pinprick wounds
with fizzy antiseptic, which is called I forget what, applied
with cotton balls. Daub, daub. Pink and white in sharp scent
of wet alcohol, or peroxide. One of those two will do
the trick. Then,

Smack my hands together, rubbing up heat and warmth from
friction, fire my inner eye and apply firm, kneading
pressure to the points and joints of this poem, moving
muscle masses and reshaping fat, slapping and twisting,
cracking chiropractorily, bones askew then re-skewed
and there you are: feel like a new man, don't you?