The Cynic Critic

I am the fear that lies in  your head,
Causes you to turn about and dread!
I am the pain in your neck from fear,
For you dread to know that I am near!

For ill critics are never welcome,
They are praised for their ill work seldom.
And even when all is said and done
They do not smile and they have no fun.

For what am I that do sit behind
To stare at works of others, my mind
Overcome with such trivial things
As misplaced actions, no wedding rings!

I see only what I wish to see,
The hard cold fact of reality.
Stuck way up here in my fancy tree;
The mistakes of others is my fee.

Yet here I the sound of my heart beat,
And all at once you'll see me retreat.
For I run hither and thither, feet
All sore from another bland repeat!

So am I run down from my worries,
And ill at heart as cold snow flurries
That do catch upon the things already
Living; I make no longer steady.

Still I hear the sound of my heart's tick,
Of which I am tired, and very sick!
For it tells me that I have no life!
As trees have no nectar; I am rife!

With toil and dreary work I keep friends,
Forgetting the points, what plays intend.
For I do not anoint these plays good,
If I had reason to live I would.   

Therefore I am bound to this world's fate,
The end of all things is dreaded spate!
At least for this world of which is said
That when all's done it shall go off to bed.

Then hear the fate of a critic, judge
If you will this cynic, grimy sludge.
But still you would not gain this dread hedge,
For I shall use your ill words as a wedge!

Strain your head then in vain to see me,
For I am illusive, as when seas
Do make a racket, and noise is fierce;
May you my location never pierce. 

                                                    The Cynic Critic, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012