Poor Poor Poet

You whip me well with your goose feather quill You poet's of knowing of rule and law. Whisper not my name in your room or hall, Do count my foot and meter, if you will. Curse at my words if they cut you and still, From low I sit that I fear not a fall. Wait I do not, for the next curtain call. I read my poem to just screech and squeal. I find my writing to me is appalled, Without form or shape penned by a cold hand. The thought I posed is instantly with-drawled. I find no meaning I can understand. Poor as I am at this poetry quiz. Addicted, I am, at the pleasure it gives.