Critic.
Friend.
Who are you? I ask politely.
Who are you to judge so lightly?
Aren’t you afraid of interpreting wrong,
and ruining all that I’ve done?

What makes you think that you’ll know what I mean?
How can you tell?

Was I disturbed?  Was I obscene?
Was I clever, witty, or keen?

I don’t know you and you don’t know me;
and sometimes, I don’t even know what I mean.

So I ask you.
Be gentle, if you rip me to shreds.
Words may still hurt long after I’m dead.
And although I say I won’t hold a grudge,
in Heaven, who knows, I may be your judge.

What say you then? Critic, my friend.