I am not a poet

I am not a poet,
And I do know it.
I cannot rhyme
All the time.
Even if I could,
I'm unsure if I should.

When I write a simile
It isn't like it's meant to be,
It's not like anything really.

A poetic conceit!
That I can meet.
Well, very nearly,
It lasts only a line.

Now, you may call me stupid,
You may call me thick,
But I always thought that meter
Was a measuring stick;

And in my poetry
That troubles me
A metaphor
Is a boar
That charges, tusks gleaming,
Out the verses I am reading,
Laid back, in a catallac
That has broken down.

Onomatopoeia!
Is that now what I hear?
Well if onomatopoeia
Made its own sound

And I have found
As I write that in spite
Of my toil,
The poetry I'm making
Means nothing at all.

My one hope
Is some dope,
With a lierary degree,
Takes apart
my false art
And finds meaning for me.