I had a high school teacher critique a poem by saying that no one capitalizes the first letter of each line any more. In retaliation, I wrote this:

 

          THere are bars in my window,
     THe only window in my wall --
     THe wall
     THat I built within
     THe desolate desert dust
     THat was my only companion during
     THose long, sun-dried teenage summers --
     THe wall
     THat I built brick by self-fired brick to be
     THe protector from
     THe harsh sun's fire and
     THe marauders
     THat stormed my ego fortress --
     THe wall that served me well,
     THat stood tall and straight and
     THick all
     THese long years --
     THe wall
     THat kept out
     THe bitter enemies and
     THe would-be friends.
     THen you came with that
  wrecking ball smile
          and those diamond-tipped eyes that
        drilled through the hard crust
            of a sun-fired soul
         leaving rubble in their wake
            exposing me to a new type of sun
                one that doesn't bake and burn
       but one that warms and melts
                       and I melted
            and I thought you melted too
                    but diamonds don't melt
         and I was the rubble in your wake
       when you left
               but
     there are some good bricks here in
     The ruins -- enough to start
     THe rebuilding process
     THere is mortar enough, and
     THere is plenty of time.
     THere is nothing but time.

          Nothing.

               But . . .