One for the poets

Play we do with a limited set of words,
On a canvas riddled with myriad rules.
Each syllable must amaze you like soaring birds,
Their meaning must bear weight like the back of mules. 
Readers’ delight is but secondary to us,
Yet why would we write if not to be read?
If not for narcissism would we be thus?
Subtlety may be our butter, but acknowledgement is our bread.
Never do we swerve from our styles and schemes,
’Tis not in our nature to be blind to beauty.
Even the free souls among us have their themes,
Anglou speaks of African-americans, and Eminem of booty.
Some of us may seem eccentric or maybe even caustic,
You did well if you realised, that this is a sonnet that’s acrostic.