March to your own drum

There are critics in this world
Hoards and hoards of babble
And it makes your stomach curl
Hearing all their gabble

They will p*ss on your creation
Rip it into shreds
Stamp it with their condemnation
And go off to bed

That's their job, they do it gladly
This is how they're made
Till today I pondered, “Sadly
They cannot create

Since they don't possess the courage
To reveal what's there
They would rather lock that storage
Than to really care?”…

And I questioned their existence
As I mourned their fate
Why oh why there's such a distance
Why can't they relate?

And today I heard my answer
Critics aren't to blame
They may seem like they're the cancer
Preying on a name

But instead they're a reflection
Of what is inside
Catalysts of introspection
They're our helpful guide

For their words will lose their meaning
If we are at peace
How can letters be demeaning
If all conflicts cease?

We're the ones that hold the power
Let the critics hum
Stand your ground and do not cower
March to your own drum.