Poetry is not for the faint of heart. At least mine apparently isn’t.

I recently completed a book of poetry and asked some of my faithful first readers to consider offering me their feedback before I pass it onto my agent.

One of my first first readers and one of the earliest supporters of my writing career replied thusly:

I once enjoyed, and even wrote, poetry, but since my soul was destroyed I have lost that connection. I suspect I would not be the best reader for this one.

How could I not love this man?