"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.