Is This a Poem

I have broken my bones for those before me On the backs of those long behind me In the mist of the present A peasant of roses in the cracks of concrete, Where seagalls steal was the beach I was born I grew up on wine and words from my mother The weeds covered all the birds of paradise With friends of mice and men And cigars to breathe This was not his story but my own This place where no one moves to fast. And every acts proper and grown I remember writings on the walls of toilet stalls That kept me warm at night. A place of mountains and water falls, where I did hold you tight. That is the place I wish stay, till this very day. Is this a poem? I don't know anymore...