Deception And Dead Poets

I broke a poetry golden rule trying,
Hard to make this poem read fine.
I should have carried the word trying,
To the beginning of the second line.

Dear God what will become of me,
I am a charlatan and poetry cheat.
Though rereading what I've written,
It does fit together nice and neat.

But can I truly live with myself,
Knowing of vast deception done.
Perhaps any reader won't notice
My poetry crime second to none.

Dead poets turn in their graves,
Shakespeare and Poe return from theirs.
Ghost legions of irate vengeful poets,
Echoing spectral concerns and cares.

Oh why do you all bloody haunt me!
I only carried over a simple word.
I've learnt never upset dead poets,
For their voices can still be heard.

Maybe it's simply for the best,
As the cliff-edge beckons me.
I'm a phony poem prose criminal,
The infamous deceiver of poetry.

Shame, shame, shame on me!