The voices said stop.
They said no-one will read it.
Those that do
will do so by accident
and will discover they do not 
like it.
They said
who are you to think your words
are poetry?
So I replied
I will read it.
I will write the words that please me.
And I will enjoy the sound they make and
the image they create
and I will not apologise for their
imperfection—
and you may call me
whatever you like.
And the voices did not know 
what to say.
And it did not matter because I had 
stopped listening anyway.