Not a poet

How am I judged? It's fair but also terse:
I'm not a poet. No. I just write verse.
So even though my metres flow alright,
My rhymes aren't bad, my structure's pretty tight,
But even so, these virtues are my flaws;
And better if I wrote bereft of laws
With verse as free as vultures in the air
And similarly full of grim despair
(Or full of any overwhelming passion -
At least, that seems to me to be the fashion.)
These vultures soar in search of greater beasts,
Which dead they rip asunder for their feasts.
Oh must it render all my verse as nought
Because of clear-communicating thought?
Oh must I write beneath a foggy shroud?
Or else with melodrama brashly loud?
"Well, yes, you silly fool. I think you'll find
That Poetry of the most superior kind
Has multiple mixed meanings to be mined."
This mumbo jumbo makes a lot of sense;
I see the good in having text that's dense.
For as dense weights sink far beneath the sea,
Just so dense texts can plumb humanity.
My lighter wit has quite a different home
And gaily drifts amidst the froth and foam.
Though mocked, one day I'll be that which I hope;
A modern shade of Alexander Pope.
Till then my shallow lines will soothe me too,
If, reading them, you view the world anew.