Beauty Is the Poetry

I wake up in the morning with my breath caught in my lungs
I try to find words but they're stuck beneath my tongue.
My mind is fleeting from left to right
and the sun in the room is all too bright.
As I try to focus on what to say
I look to my fingers to write away.
They seem not to know what are my thoughts
instead they write with little black dots.
The professor says he knows what I mean
but the words I have written are too lean.
In another attempt to preserve my might
the words I end up with are still too trite.
Finally I say to essays away
because I can never simply write what I need to say.
The paragraphs are long and superfluous,
when I'm only trying to be virtuous.
And then I remember a book in my room
that says you don't write paragraphs on the face of your tomb.
So I sit down to write a poem on life
that tells the story of some of my strife.
The words flowed out like Niagara Falls
and no longer did I worry if my sentences were small.
Poetry has builded me a brand new heart
a safe little refuge, with a peaceful blank start.

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