I clip my finger-
nails
listen to
pointless music
and try
to write a decent
poem

when will I
be able to call
myself a
“poet”

I refuse to
do it now
for fear of being
shot down
by the vultures
that constantly
circle over-
head

and in truth,
I don’t believe
it

I’m not like Hemmingway,
or Whitman, or Dickinson,
or Buk

I’m not wise,
I haven’t seen
the world,
I don’t know
anything about
anything
and most of all

I’m a kid

they’re all grown,
old or dead by the
time they garnered
any fame


and I’m sixteen,
a neophyte in a
generation of
lazy degeneration

but I am not part of
my generation, I am
privy to its problems
but stoic to its culture

I stand aside while
standing atop

I clip the final
finger, the pinky
of my left hand,
and the music
churns to a halt

I count all the poems
I’ve written

over five-hundred,
I chuckle

suppose I’m a poet
even if I’m a tad

untraditional