Subjective

Poetry is s u b j e c t I v e
Just like those who read it
You cannot place a rating on something
In which it's difficult to do so

Do you rate  based on if
The author created a waterfall with words
Or whether they ripped open your ribcage
And fished out your organs one by one

So do we count if they've killed us
With each breath we do not draw
When favorite characters are beaten or slayed
Challenges like fiery dragons and fairies come to raid us away
How many stars do we give

When suddenly a word falls flat
Like a note now out of tune
No longer plucking our heartstrings
And the world falls deaf and silent
Spent and weary from holding on for far too long

Or
Do we base our ideas on if the author had toiled hard enough bled enough or suffered enough
Until we can almost see their own last breath
Lining the spine of the book and keeping the ink from fully drying
Leave the words to the wind and rain in wait
Squandering away hopes and dreams until they become skeleton
Bony and knotted and gnarled from lack of use

It's all subjective in the end
For every single little meaning