Concentration Poem by Matthew Rousseau

I concentrate for a week and produce an hour of homework
Trapped, buried or lost, there seems to be some sort of leak
I don’t why it has to be in the thinking process of my brain
However, My focus becomes as good as a de-railed train

This happens sparingly though
I eventually find a piece of art to show
To the crowd all around me
Piled up to the ceiling So that I cannot see

Whether I am strong or meek at the time
I get it done like a punishment for an unjust crime
Who makes these rules I’m not sure, I’ll pass
Remind me, why did I write this poem for literature class?