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Photo by MJ Son Unsplash
Used under Unsplash License

i found the mail sent yesterday to me
to say my precious work of heart and soul
was coarse, uncouth, and worse, was crude debris,
a sad excuse for cultured self-control.

they called it tasteless, vapid, worthless tripe
more suited to the lining of a pig
than something worthy of a linotype,
and snickered that i had too much to swig

before i dared to set my thoughts to words,
to capture all the fire of my heart,
and all my mortal essence from these sherds
of human soul who dared the price of art.

so judge my words and crush them with debate,
yes, you who can destroy but not create