I wanted to be a poet

I wanted to be a poet, 

until I found out you had to be weird.

I wanted to philosophize,

but found I couldn't grow a beard.

I wanted to write a novel,

but lacked the foresight to plan it.

I wanted to play music,

but was beat out by people with talent.


All these things I've wanted to do,

I couldn't because of some reason.

I tried to be a success, but couldn't will myself to be one.


Maybe I’m not good enough,

or perhaps something else.

Is it possible that my purpose has yet to be unveiled?


But since I can't be what I want,

and I can only be me,

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am TBD.

This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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