I am not a writer.
Yes, they have called me “the writer”
(my contemporaries)
And yes, I relish it,
as I sit in the back of the class
with my hipster halo
of purchased eccentricity
that can only adorn
children who fancy themselves
their generation’s new
Beatnik Prophet.

This sophisticated smirk?
It’s practiced.
It has languished coyly,
watching it’s reflection in the mirror
as it stretches and says,
“Oh, this old thing?
Wrote that when I was half asleep!”
and laughs at its own audacity.
One’s not born with such
sinister nonchalance.

“It’s easy for you,”
I sneer at my classmates,
“you one-day doctors,
you prospective lawyers,
No one will be waiting for your fresh and unique insights
on this era’s modern and hopefully articulate state-of-mind.”
(Not that anyone waits for mine).

And then I will produce my poetic plunder,
as if to say,
“Here is the future,”
and showcase my words’
empty metaphors like costume jewelry.
sonnets about “night moves”
(subtract the Seger, plus the puberty)
and jilted trysts beneath stadium lights.
and the audience may ooh and ahh,
and I, like a child with
his first finger-painting,
will revel in the limelight bestowed
by my ever-faithful spectators.

It’s that glow that will keep me up for days.
The promise of adulation,
the high regard of my naiveté,
floating about me like a stale aroma,
for days,
even
weeks on end.

For, you see,
I am not a writer.
I’m the P.T. Barnum
of pre-pubescent poets.
I breathe in the thrill of
the advertisement for my life,
“Come one, come all.
Witness the new prodigy!”
when I know the show is all a
smoke and mirrors game,
my own skillful,
and illusive means of living.

No, I am anything
ANYTHING
but a writer.