Why is it when a poem you craft
And words so carefully chosen
The thing you write is a part of you
Whether real or imagined

There are times when words on paper flow
Like a river’s bursting it’s banks
You look and ponder, not a word you change
Yet other times the birth’s so traumatic

You labour and sweat, words you change
Then finally the light turns green
Next it feels like a load is gone
Til the pen starts writing again

So what, I ask, gives you the right
To criticize my writing
Telling me what words to use
They want to change the meaning

Why is it that each line you begin
A capital is most confusing
I hate to tell you this my ‘friend’
Many famous poets do it

Just because you’re stuck in a rut
You think you know all the answers
So many different ways to write
Maybe some not even invented

So I will be ever so polite
About you and your criticism
May the Bird of Paradise sit on your shoulders
And peck your ears to pieces

May he fertilise your shoulder blades
And set up a din most raucous
May all your demons come at night
And haunt your sleeping moments