Compliant - ON WRITING AND RUNNING

I tried to be compliant
While I sought poetic license
The meter doesn't matter
There's no pitter with the patter
My feet could be iambic
Which sends me in a panic
I'm very pessimistic
Which could mean anapestic
I'm sticking with the rhyming
Which finds me compromising
The very content of my verse
Which seems to be a curse
I tried to be prosaic
Which led me to trochaic
And the thought of feet dactylic
Makes me yearn for alcoholic
So for now I'll sit in silence
As I await poetic license
It keeps me so alive
I can hardly wait to drive