I've often wondered what it is that makes a poem "great". Pre-defined criterias?
Do we negotiate?

Perhaps the subject matter?
The cadence?
The flow?
Does being madder than a hatter
make an Edgar Allan Poe?

If I violate the rules
yet weave the words just right
might I not produce some jewels?
Write a masterpiece in spite?

My three biggest critics
are Me, Myself, and I.
I's very analytic
and always wonders why.

Myself methinks a scribbler.
A comedian of sort,
though he's a double dribbler
and a very poor sport.

If I write something I like
"I hate it" says Myself.
Count on Me to disagree
and put it on "the shelf".

Convicted of some trespass
by Me, Myself, or I
it lingers with the hourglass
and waits for time to fly.

Like a fine vintage wine
with some age becomes mature,
might not these poems of mine
become great literature?

One day to be discovered.
"My God!
Look what we've found!
These texts we just uncovered
are spectacular! Profound!"