Putting Structure in Poetry

Someone once said, “You don’t need substance from or of a poem,” I disagreed with that, silently, and then wrote about it later. We all have our opinions in literature and poetry not sure who is right and who is wrong, or if there is such things as right an wrong in writing, except for things you didn’t intend to do, and you did.
Substance can mean matter, body, the essence or soul of the poem, and I suppose some poems do not have a soul, there is another element in substance though, I’ve yet to bring out, it is called ‘Structure’ or at least I call it that, or proclaim it to be part of substance, again, folks may differ with that.
Let me put it another way, I have a body, and that means I have structure, and in my body I have a soul. I am a living poem you could say. But let me go a little farther with this.
When a thing is composed of parts, it has what you call structure, meaning I have arms, legs, a head, torso, feet, hands, these to me are parts. When you put all this together you get me. On the other hand, a poem has parts, such as: words, sounds, tone, and they all fit together, or should if you want structure to your poem that is; another word for parts can be elements.
A part of the poem, or structure, is its form. Some call them lines, other folks may call them stanzas, as in a haiku, there is a shape or pattern developing here that will become part of the structure. In most haiku’s there are seventeen syllables, I say in most, and three lines, but it varies by style, one can add a line or two if you change the style. The first and third lines have five syllables, and in the middle line are seven.
To some poets, and I am among them, they are unwillingness to submit themselves to rigid forms, although I have. My first book, “The Other Door,” would fall under this style, the rigid form style, and many of my other poems, are of this style, out of my 2400-poems to this day, but most have not. Why?
Well let me say it with a correlation: why write something and try to squeeze it into a haiku that cannot come out of a haiku, into such a rigid form that is, thus I change styles. What is important to me is the soul more often, how I think I want the reader to perceive the poem, and the effect.
But one must not forget, form gives the poem unity, completeness often times. That is to say, your eyes are no good if you can’t see to read, so you get glasses, and thus, you are more complete. If you stick with a Haiku, which is liking to having no glasses when you need them, you do more harm than good—and perhaps make both you and the poem more cumbersome and silly.
On the other, a good sonnet, and I’ve written a number of them, not a lot, but several, and the concluding line, the last line, the one with a rhyme word, to end it all, should be the spark for the whole poem: for the best effect: we see this in Shelley’s work “Ozymandias (1817), so what did Shelly really do to make the poem so good. To me she picked out one thing, idea, perception, and picture, framed it, echoed it at the end, one thing one human experience the reader could hang onto, and she used the form of the poem to do this. Like a counselor would do in group therapy, such as turning off the lights, tell a story in a low tone, and when there was a great silence, he created from the beginning to the end, at the end, the last word would be the word he would want everyone to connect the story with later with. I done this in poetry as well as counseling being a license counselor, putting this form into poetry is not difficult for me, and Shelly does it wisely. Her last words in the poem being, “The lone and level sand stretch far away.”