Don't like my poems anymore

I don't like my poems anymore
and now I find out
they don't like me much either.
Well, that puts me in my place.
I want my poems to fly, to jump, to rhyme.
Why won't my poems dance?
Why won't my poems take anybody's breath away?
Why can't my poems be like her poems?
Then all of a sudden,
my poems start talking back
issuing complaints and demands
and calling me ridiculous names
that I won't repeat.
I mean who is a poem
to talk about me,
the poet, the writer, the creator.
Without me, the poem would not exist,
but like a mortal cursing God,
my poems cursed me.
An ugly chorus of poems
calling me a slacker, a hacker.
Now the poems can also be
somewhat patronizing.
"Talent," they scream.
"Talent! You have so much talent.
Why don't you think about using it?
Because of your laziness we stink.
We're pieces of crap.
Feces. Waste material.
Why don't you work with us?
Shape us. Smell us.
We got the funk. We got the funk.
So come on punk.
Memorize. Plagiarize.
Beg, borrow, steal.
Whatever it takes.
We know we've got potential,
but we're flopping around
like angels without wings.
Don't you want us to sing.
La la la la la...."
Whatever.
Now if these poems were real,
if they had bodies,
I'd be slapping them around.
Who do they think I am?
The problem is
I know who they are.
They are figments of my imagination,
right?
Right. Figments of my imagination.
But still they seem so real.
I want to do right by them.
I want them to be proud
to be called my poems.