Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.
T. S. Eliot

Morning Poem

I woke early one morning,

The earth lay cool and still

When suddenly a tiny bird

Perched on my window sill,

He sang a song so lovely

So carefree and so gay,

That slowly all my troubles

Began to slip away.

He sang of far off places

Of laughter and of fun,

It seemed his very trilling,

brought up the morning sun.

I stirred beneath the covers

Crept slowly out of bed,

Then gently shut the window

And crushed his fucking head.

I'm not a morning person.

I don’t know who wrote this but they sure do sound like me.