Writing a moderately long poem allows me to be a storyteller about...

a formerly Hirsute
(with hair almost
down to his high knee,
which imparted an immediate impression
of a nonacquisitive, nonconformist,
nonestablishmentarian, et cetera
an amazingly gracefully aging
sexagenarian baby boomer
maintaining youthfulness looking
who frequently incorporates stories
within his freestyle lengthy poems

one of the reasons
(sometimes with rhymes),
he unspools instantaneous thoughts
within a surge of spontaneity
as if the words spill forth
of their own accord
and invisibly drip from fingers
the theme mainly linkedin

with trials and tribulations

that populate lifespan
and since January 13th
two thousand and sixteen
marking the sixty seventh orbit

completed around the sun

ofttimes intimating being in the doldrums
id est a feeling
of listlessness and depression

even now eight hundred and ten months

since yours truly exited the birth canal,
(a tangle of wiry arms and legs
tipping the scales at about seven pounds

and so many even or odd ounces),
whose calves of mine still skinny
analogous to spindle shanks

that nevertheless support slender thighs,
a buttucks still being
in the process
of being satisfactorily sculpted
doing stretches mainly
to ease lower back pain
which plagued me
at about seventy inches tall
(the height of a man
more'n sixty years ago),
but now big so called little boys
the size of an average kindergartner

find me overshadowed by towering lads
their heads nearly scraping the ceiling,
and I find myself physically intimidated,
when crossing paths
with such youths,
who look like
they could easily be potential bullies,
cause the painful
memories of yesteryear
the writer of these words
designated as the de facto scapegoat

an extremely socially withdrawn student

who never raised his hand

despite being about
an unclear taught lesson,
and usually as a result
experienced receiving unflattering grades,
which magic markers
used up and then some
to review homework assignments
or perspiration (courtesy sweaty hand)
on many an occasion
found tests wet,
when handed to the teacher
which passive and submissive trait

never found me
asking in an assertive voice
for a retake,
cause rumor circulated
that the student
who received a makeshift plaque
as the most quiet student
(much smarter than he appeared at first blush)
during senior year
at Methacton High School
reckons those twelve years
got misspent at an average sized
institution of higher learning,
an nary a handy dandy blue's clue

found this self anointed bard of Schwenksville

at his wits end regarding vocational objective,

thus I hop-scotched from one College/University

with the hope to suddenly discover a calling,

but none came, and a vast stretch of time

got frittered away courtesy anticipatory anxiety
at a natural born (this way) ineptitude

that advanced material 
not understandable within 
the mind of one poker faced dude.