Women My Age

Here is a poem-like production of my daily writing.

Women my age
Are untapped repositories of what not to do,
Who not to trust, how not to give yourself away like that.
Furious bundles of what circumstance has made them
And why they shouldn't be blamed for how things turned out.
It's really someone else's fault.
Her parents, who praised her only for her people-pleasing skills,
Her ex-husband, drat him to hell, who made her open up
And expose herself only to laugh in her face at her weakness.
The selfish people she works with who don't understand
How much she has already suffered without having to put up with
Their irresponsibility, their cubicle shenanigans, their laziness.
They are outraged at being demoted to mere wallpaper on
The backdrops of someone else's drama.
First it was their mother's saga,
Now it is their hugely entitled and whiny children's.
They are relegated to crazy first-wife status,
The reason that playboy-wannabe was out of there.
Their priceless advice is floating freely everywhere
But not the ears to hear it with.

I have more of these, and nowhere to put them.
Is it a poem?