Your poem is perfect, do write more, says one
Your poem is just prose, stop writing this bilge, says another
Your poem is poignant
Your poem is puerile
Pithy
Pathetic
Someone writes a bludgeon poem
To bludgeon my rapier poem
I don’t mind
Poetry makes the world go round
Poetry lends wings to dreams
But right now, what my poems are
Are just silent screams