A Poet Is Like A Bird (a passive aggressive response to a poetry assignment)

I am a poet,
feather pen brushing 
through the ink
and over the page,
a bird in flight.

My voice is unhindered 
by bars or barricades,
no rules to shut me down.
I can fly free,
spread my wings,
and soar.

But sometimes someone
comes along and 
tells me what to write,
and how to write it.

My feathers droop,
soaked in ink, weighed down 
by expectations,
but I will find a way
to break free.

The song from my lips
flows from my pen, curling 
across the page, winding 
around the bars, 
twisting and tightening,
splintering them.

Out I fly,
wings spread wide,
beak open,
brimming with lines
of joyful song.