Over and over I replay that day in my head,
The day that I chose Creative Writing instead.
Instead of Computer Graphics, Drama, or Psych,
I saw Creative Writing and said, “Hey there’s something I’d like!”

I look back at that day with regret in my eyes,
If only I had been more prospective or wise.
I wanted to write great tales of glory,
Yet the closest I got was a very short story.

So day after day I come to this class,
My eyes glaze over, as if made of glass.
From your exuberant speeches I learn nothing at all,
I simply sit there, and examine the wall.

Week after week you grade my writing,
Your comments feel oh so caustic and biting.
You talk about passion and being unique,
Yet I am told to “do it your way” week after week.

You do not see perfection in much of my work.
I understand this, but could you be less of a jerk?
I mean no offense when I say the above,
It’s just that in reading your comments I don’t “feel the love.”

You tell me to cut out all the unneeded phrases.
To this I silently scream “WHAT IN THE BLAZES?!”
You leave these phrases for me to find,
Leaving me to wonder what goes on in your mind.

Though I rant and I rave I expect no result,
I only ask that this is not viewed as an insult.
I wrote this piece with no goals in mind.
I simply needed to unwind.