I wake up in the morning with my breath caught in my lungs

I try to find words but they're caught 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 I write in small black dots.

I turn it in the very next morning

against my mother's very fair warning.

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 say.

The paragraphs are just 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 short poem on life

that tells the story of some of my strife.

and no longer did I worry if my sentences were small. 

The words flowed out like Niagra Falls 

Poetry has builded me a brand new heart

a safe little refuge, with a peaceful blank start.