i hate my poetry class, i love my poetry class.

It's been rough in class lately. I've been getting down on my poems, and feel like I am clearly the worst poet in that class. I want to succeed. haha, honestly, mostly I just want my poetry to be good enough that people will like it and compliment it.
My teacher always asks for more specifics in my poems and this week I tried and uh, well he couldnt tell. He told me the same thing as before. So as I was walking to my car after class, bummed out because I suck at something I thought I was slightly good at, I was inspired. (Of course, I ramble off poetry when I can't write it.) So, I went to my car and wrote it down.
I think what bothers me the most about not feeling confident about my poetry, whether it is good or not, I always thought it was my "thing". I feel like everyone has something they are good at and mine is poetry. So, when I feel like "well, maybe poetry isn't my thing" then I am left with nothing I am good at.


I'm walking fast
like I have somewhere to go
but I'll just go home,
talk to my cats,
and sleep.

I look down at the concrete
I'm stomping on
instead of the wandering eyes
of passer bys.
Because if I met those eyes
I might actually have to make small talk
and pretend to like someone
I could care less about
and they could care less about me.

So, I'll just stare at the
pencils stuck between the cracks,
millions of cigarettes wasted,
splashes of color of dissenagrating gum,
and the clown tattoo on this guy's calf
that is walking slowly in front of me.

The clown with one eye bigger than the other,
a sharp line of teeth like Jaws,
protruding.
-But I look away because
clowns scare me
and I might get nightmares
if I stare long enough.

So, I walk past him at my haste pace
And past the people
in cars that always seem to be
in a hurry,
across the crosswalk and almost
get run over by some
guy in a piece-of-junk car
because I never look when
I cross the crosswalk.
Just to feel B.A.
"I have the right of way, A-hole!"
I want to scream,
but I just stare a hole through his window instead.

When I get to my car
I have to stratigically
open my car door
while shoving my overweight
backpack in my back seat.
Then shimmy myself
in the driver's seat,
trying not to hit the
stupid truck
that parked diagonally
next to me.

Finally in my safe haven
of fake leather and good music.

Now, I look like a creep
sitting in my car writing
a SPECIFIC poem
to convince my classmates,
and probably myself,
that I dont suck at writing poetry.