Well...

I can't write well, for my writing is not ancient
But I can write, for words I am acquainted with
They have meaning, still not one so good
As to make you respond to my enquiry
But if I had the bravery, or at least spare the time
To say a pleasing word, so you can hear it
Well, I would not, for it is my thoughts that count here
And then... well, you do not have consequence
in the end.
For me, the least to say is that I would not write better
For, alas, I cannot write well, but my words do make sense
And perhaps they are stolen from a better mind, that is
An ancient mind, hundreds of years gone by,
Had I the right to call your bluff, as you do to me -
How I would question your opinion, dear friend!
I am angry at myself, but at you I am more;
For you dismiss my poetry, but pretend you write better
But the affection is mutual, therefore I entreat you
to show greater talent on the literary path
Ars poetica you cannot call this
For I never did intend to pour this onto your head.
I wanted to write about subconscious truths,
Of which you know already. But this thread,
This rope you grasp in desperate need of fame
Is your inferiority, which cannot bear another name.
Had you been of a different kind, I would have let you be.
But you do not write well, so you are just like me.