Since it looks like the other poem and its response thread got deleted, I'll repost this response (good thing I saved a copy,) though it has lost its impact now:
Poetry is not mere spontaneous rhyme;
The structure has grammar, rhythm, and time.
The contents are more than just vomiting lust,
In plebeian prose designed to disgust.
Poems are the music of laugher and mirth,
Elysian mysteries touching the Earth,
Melancholy strains of longing and grief,
And ballads of heroes defying belief.
Poems shape the thoughts that would otherwise flee,
They inspire, they challenge, they move us, they free.
But you gushed up words straight from your scrotum,
Don't disrespect art and dare call that a poem.