A Work in Progress

This is a poem I've started, but I can't seem to bring myself to work on it as often as I'd like. I've constrained the sonnet form to alternate between iambic and trochaic pentameter, which makes it difficult to craft image into linguistic imitation. More to come!

I will not write love poetry for you.
From the day you said you would not have me --
          Such simple words; mere sounds that crushed my soul.
          How is it but vibrations of the air
          Can bear a weight to shatter hearts once whole?
-- How I swore I'd never craft a couplet,
          Nor waste a verse, nor iamb in its part.
          I'll neither scheme nor strain for thoughts of you,
          And render unrequited love as art.
I forsake the Muses on their mountain!
          For how Parnassus my own heart betrayed
          When in one breath they've chosen to reveal --
                                        and steal
          --the sole sublime for which this poet prayed.