when will I be a poet?

wave-break Poems

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