"Write a poem due by my desk on Friday," he said.
I looked at the assignment and wondered if I should have just fled.
Putting my annoyance aside, I sit down and put my pen to the paper.
My boredom takes over, and all I want to do is caper,
But the thin, bound fibers urge me to fill the void space.
Trying again, I stare ahead at my trophy case,
And slowly, I find my answer staring me in the eye.
DING DING DING! Light bulbs shatter around me, and I let out a cry.
Hark! The root of my idea speaks out to me in an uncontrollable super speed.
I plead to the idea to slow down so I can somehow write it all down before my pen begins to bleed.
Flourishing language curl within and out of the paper to form a beautiful story of dance.
In awe, I wonder at how simple it was to produce...maybe it was just in this particular circumstance?
But no! When my passion comes out, I can fully express.
An epiphany hits me with full force: words are more than letters attatched to each other -- they represent, illustrate, and impress.
Poetry is its own dance unlike my ballroom dancing -- one of my many passions.
It inspires, it leaves your jaw on the floor, but one important fact is: it exceeds all fashions.
Poetry is another dance of life like no other and relates to all on different degrees.
Now that I conclude my poem, I feel relief in the form of a light breeze.