Everyone's a Critic

Your poem is a stream of anxiousness,
the AI critic tells me, nonchalantly.
You iterate, regurgitate, digress,
and generally, let me put it bluntly:

you don't actually say a single thing,
ad noseum, that hasn't been repeated.
Not only do your stanzas fail to sing -
they crawl and grovel, maudlin, defeated,

best relegated to a dustbin of
their brethren, or better yet, a fire,
since that, at least, will warm the air above,
and no, you cannot, will not get much higher,

though I'll admit your rhymes are pretty good…
Perhaps it's just that you're misunderstood.