WHAT THE **** IS A POEM!?

While sailing in the south pacific,
I thought about something terrific.
Of something I'd seen
When I was eighteen
But I guess that's not very specific.

My pocket is torn,
My hair is a mess.
There are stains,
There are footprints
all over my dress.

My muscles are sore,
My knees are both bruised.
And my legs
And my shoulders
have been overused.

Under the sky, where I normally stand,
I counted the number of lines on my hand
It took me a while to acknowledge each one
but at least I felt comfortable under the sun.

Then later that night, standing out in the mist,
I counted the number of scars on my wrist.
It was equal to that of the previous night
and I kept it that way for I felt it was right.

In a spaceship of minimal girth,
I removed myself from planet earth.
At a quickening pace
I was ****** toward space
And away from the world of my birth.

I think it's been once or maybe twice, I've hit my head when I slipped on some ice.
It's happened three times, maybe four, I've tripped over the step as I walked through a door.
Too many times, it seems to me, I've walked right into an upright tree.
Four times this week or even five, I've cut myself with butchers knives.

A person with wings: Not a person at all.
A man in the sky is destined to fall.
A fish on the shore: Not a fish anymore!
A man in the sea with a boat, to explore.