I wrote a poem.
It was of sensuality,
It was of intimacy,
Not of sexuality. It
Was of passion and desires.
It was of me, asking
My lover, to give
Up her passion so
I may have my desire.

A critic told me this,
Which I was unaware.
To which I could say
" Tis my poem, let me be."
I say nay to this!

An artist with his brush,
Paints so that another
See the beauty he sees,
A poet's brush is
His words, yet if
They are not fashioned
Targeted, honed precisely
At his intended, they
Fall on deaf ears,
Satisfying no but
himself.
And to even of
Vainest men, this
Is a worthless endeavor.

So to you, my friend,
With that one thought,
I say thank you.