Pulling Teeth

You can't know how desperately I want to write. I haven't written any poetry or decent prose in months. I feel like such a failure.
Buh.
It's the rubbish sketches I've been doing. They take all the extra bits.
No one is sexier than Jeremy Irons as Havelock Vetinari.
'Don't let me detain you.'
My brain went honestly to mush.
Speaking of mushy brains, I've decided not to comment on amateur writing any more. Or, rather, writing that people present as creative, but aren't really interested in improving. I've had one too many whingy ingrates who, after I have taken half an hour to dissect their work and discover their flaws, send a barrage of hatemail about how their feelings are hurt.
And yes, I am harsh, and I will point everything out that I feel isn't right, or that can be improved, but I generally will give a disclaimer. Something to the effect of: 'Don't be offended, if what I'm seeing as an error is really your style, then ignore it. Also, the more you write the better you'll get.'
Some of the most unhelpful critiques any artist can receive are composed of, 'OMG! You're like, so talented! I can't believe you thought of that. I can really feel what you were trying to say. Don't listen to people who say you've got it wrong. They're just trying to get you down.'
PEOPLE!
If you encounter a critique longer than three sentences, pointing out things that hurt your feelings, that deal with the material, and aren't some nonsensical flame, you feel grateful that whoever it is that wrote it took the time out of their life to tell you how you can improve. All those gaping plot holes they're illuminating, those are things you can re-work and improve.
As good old G.K. said, 'artistic temperament is for amateurs.'
Anyhow, all that having been said, I'm never giving a critique to anyone unless they trust that I know what I'm talking about, and I'm sure they're serious about their own work. Nothing makes me angrier than when someone I've taken time to review says, 'well, I'm not perfect.'
NEITHER AM I! No one is! My favourite authors aren't perfect! They're brilliant, not perfect, but if you're going to give up while you still suck eggs, you're not going to IMPROVE, and people are still going to laugh behind their hands when you rhyme 'love' with 'above' or 'dove,' or 'blood' with 'mud,' or call your soul black or your heart empty, and whinge about cutting yourself and say how much so-and-so has hurt you and how you'll never recover. You can write about those things, but please, please, please, don't be offended when people say they've heard these topics discussed in the exact same language.
Buggrit, this is turning into a proper rant.
As a very clever somebody told me once (after I presented a piece of wangsty garbage):
"Poetry is not saying, 'you died, and I miss you.'
Poetry is saying,
'Interred below, you live in me--
Sepulchral spiders of memory.' "
Oh. And I am drawing Vimes.
*blush*