The Writing of Poetry

With words, I enter writing’s door
But I know vaguely what’s in store
Having fun, I take my aim
Then critics fill me up with shame. 

Wisdom marked with creativity
And a well done sense of gravity
Become the word pairs very strange
And a style that’s out of range. 

Lacking meter, not poetic
Beauty wrong and not historic
A short description not precise
And rhymes, the most preferred device.

Hence, the writing’s not profane
Just a hobby, keeps me sane.
Good or bad, it’s what I muster
I just put faith in truth and luster.