what’s wrong with my poetry

What’s wrong with my poetry?

I ask, again, after class.

While others conjure theatrical  images,

All I do is to sound crass.

I realise I avoid emotions,

View life through squeaky clean glass.

But they wallow in manufactured melancholy

and blow it out their ass.

So, what does it take to get the gold star?

The coveted pat on the head?

I suppose I ought not to give a shit.

But, still,  I wonder a bit.