a poet can survive anything but a misprint

We see, hear, taste and feel life so differently sometimes that it's hard to breathe when you cannot convey it in your art, or make others understand.
I recently began taking lessons through the mail with Long Ridge Writer's Group. Every assignment I get back I am told I have "poetic, lyrical" writing and I am that I am very creative. But, within the margins of my writings I am also explained the rules of grammar and writing. I understand the rules, but when it comes to creative writing, I feel nothing should be edited and the traditional rules should not be followed. I hate restrictions being put upon me in order for my writing to be acceptible. I don't believe in traditional punctuation, fragments, run-ons or any other boundaries that restrict creative flow! Creative writing is meant to bring forth innovation and CREATION! If we apply ancient rules to it, it will never have a chance to flourish into the next evolution. Besides, connotation changes with the times, the culture. Gay today doesn't mean happy; a faggot is not a bundle of sticks- it is someone gay! It is all relative to time, place and society. I want my writing to be felt from the pages within the person; I want them so intent on the imagery that they don't care about the grammar. I want the flow of words to match the action I am explaining, move symphonically, undulate like the restless oceans! But even they are inhaled ashore to meet their demise.
I wandered around the local arts district under gentle rain. I love the rain. It stirs so much creativity within me. It renders a haunting aura about the trees, the pavement and buildings-the sky ghostly illuminated. Being 25 with so many thoughts about the world only venturing as far as my journals, some books are hidden and others lay strewn about my schizophrenically organized room, I guess I was feeling sorry for myself that day. I live inside my head, and like most of us, create my own reality. I went to the Oar House, one of my favorite pubs, except when it's crowded. I ordered my Jameson and took it over to my usual window by the front door. Even the acrid burn of whiskey could not melt the lump in my throat. The thoughts in my head- frantic like trapped birds. I write on my napkin and stash it away in my purse. I see that the pen has pressed the words through onto the table. I smiled at it; I had left my mark for some other lonely soul to come and look at and wonder, who has such beautiful ideas? I must find them! By the end of my drink, my eyes were brimming with tears.  When I got home, I tried to write, but no new thoughts would flow out. Frustrated, I collapse to my bed, where my cat lay grooming, like a defeated ballerina.