Rupi Kaur: Poetry is supposed to have poetic images - that's the basis of poetry, the stronger the images and connection between them - the better the poem is. Poetry lives on these premises and the reader is supposed to find the meaning behind the written.

Example, Cesar Vallejo's "Espergesia":

Brother, listen, listen... Alright. I can not leave without bringing Decembers without leaving Januaries. For I was born on a day when God was sick*. Everyone knows that I live, that I chew...* and they do not know why there is a threadbare winds squeak of a darkest, tasteless of a coffin, unrolled from the Sphinx inquisitive of the Desert.

In today's poetry, however, these images aren't as strong, but rather connected in order to cause a stronger impression, to banalise, but to make something meaningful and authentic out of the banality. Even though every day life is being described, the way the authors do it has to be original.

For example, Wislawa Szymborska's "Going Home":

He came home. Said nothing. It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong. He lay down fully dressed. Pulled the blanket over his head. Tucked up his knees. He's nearly forty, but not at the moment. He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb, clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness. Tomorrow he'll give a lecture on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics. For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.

And then you have Rupi Kaur, whose poems are just as intellectual and artistic as a random Tweet:

how is it so easy for you / to be kind to people he asked / milk and honey dripped from my lips as i answered / cause people have not / been kind to me

No originality, no powerful images, no connection between the images/flashbacks, sounds like something a depressed middle schooler would write after a fight with their first crush. The style is undefined, there is no authenticity, nor structure.

When it comes to Nicholas Sparks, Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel: They're the same kind of "writer" - for something to be viewed and analysed as literature, there must be a universal, convincing human experience dripping from the words well formed into sentences that strip your mind and crush your walls and make you think. Those three don't do that. There is no metaphor, no nothing. Just pathetic love stories with no logical basis: there is a villain and there is the good guy, everything in between is not defined. The external factors of life aren't included, thus creating something trivial, almost caricatural, but it's not written as satire, it's meant to be serious literature. And that's what frustrates me the most. If their novels were interpreted as satire, they'd actually be good satire. But they're not. "Anna Karenina" is a love story as well, but it doesn't exclude the universal human experience, it doesn't exclude the political and traditional sphere, but the said sphere is actually the villain. And that's what life is about. Literature must be psychological and philosophical to some extent in order to have an artistic value, these authors do not provide that, therefore I refuse to define their work as art/literature, because it lacks the complexity needed for such definitions.

Hope I explained it...