My Critique

I had some inspiration
And a full afternoon.
So I made a poem
And a painting of the moon.

I stood back and took a look.
It looked alright to me.
I tried my best to be my best,
Which is the best that I can be.

So I took it to my critique,
Who I know would settle it out.
My critique could approve it
Which is what they're all about.

My critque took a good look.
Looked at me and then looked back.
My critque looked closer, squinted And then began to laugh!

I was very puzzled.
I just had to ask.
"So what do you think?"
I finally said at last.

"Well to be very honest,
The poem is a dud.
The painting has no unity.
I hate to say it bud."

"All your poetry sounds the same.
I don't know why you still paint.
I simply reacted by laughing.
You're lucky I didn't faint."

"Your poetry is awful,
No wonder no one rates.
Your moon looks like cheese.
The kind that everyone hates."

"Please do me a favor,
And throw this mess away.
It's far to drab to keep.
Too drab for a rainy day."

"Go ahead and take your chances.
Everyone else's words are the key.
But why you even took the time
Is a mystery to me."

I stood there mouth gaped,
My eyes emerging tears.
I havn't heard such horrible things
In any of my years.

"Well, it that's what you think",
I said in a shaky voice,
"I guess I'll have to try again.
I really have no choice."

"So I guess you're right then.
I wouldn't want anyone to smirk.
You saved me the humiliation,
Even though you are a jerk."

Finally I heard a knock.
Room empty, painting on the shelf.
I heard my mom say to the door,
"Why are you talking to yourself?"