Proof I Am Not a Poet

I recently came across a slip of paper embedded in an old book of mine which contained a poem I'd written.

Kindly note, this is strictly Juvenilia, and as such, isn't very good. In point of fact, much as I love poetry (and even wrote my fair share), virtually none of it was ever worth the paper it was written on.

I suppose it ought to sadden me to admit that this is likely the best poem I've ever written, given it's little more than doggerel. Still, if I cannot serve as a positive example, perhaps I can still fulfill my role as a cautionary tale of how *NOT* to write. The following is an example. And no, I'm not proud of it; nonetheless, I decided to post it here. Feel free to make fun of it: my skin is exceptionally thick at this point in my life :D

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Oh what shall I do with the thousand desires
          That scream for release from my flesh?

Oh what shall I do with their motivate fires
          Which seek with their endings to mesh?

For the love of their songs, Resolutions I spurn,
          For conflict is the Song of my Spirit;

As within my poor breast, my heart overturns,
          And I write of it so you may hear it.

                                                                    ~JM (circa 1992-3)
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