Reverse the question.
Question the reverse.
The answers might surprise you.

Answer the question.
Question the answer.
The problem is never solved.

Solve the problem.
Problem the solved.
Impossible possibilities.

If you are in a hurry,
go ahead and don't
bother to wait for me.
My life still needs me.

Some untold stories,
an unsung song,
an incomplete conversation,
an unread book.
Some bridges to build
some to burn,
wounds to heal
fences to mend
relations to tend...

In my hurry
to catch up with you,
I breathlessly ran and
I left behind
so many moments,
breathtaking moments.
Let me catch up  
with them now,

I'll catch up
wtth you later...

Roses Are Red
Violets Are Blue
Why am I writing this stupid poem about you
Watching you write in class brings me joy
But the thing is
You and I are no more
For some reason I feel obsessed
But I don't like you
I just wish I can be with you
I wish that I never met you
Or that you would leave my head.
I wish I never said yes..
The first
Second
Or third time...

On this day it was bright
A hot summer day
With heat and hard work
I decided I wanted to make a change
I moved everything
I changed everything
With the blazing heat it happened
I awoke on the floor
Tears rolling down my eyes
My mother screaming
Darkness.....
I awoke to only see several men
To the hospital we go

My cellphone is a drug.
I need to feel its buzz to know
I will always grab the attention of somebody.
My self worth relies on how many people
Like my self-portrait
Or note this poem.
Somewhere along the way I started to measure my friends
By the number of followers
I had on twitter
Or how many people
Commented upon my profile picture
To tell me I looked beautiful in the light.
I know that I am pretty and
That I could write a decent poem if I tried.
I know that I'm never alone
But I cannot bear this silence.
For more than an hour
My phone has not rung.
No one has called me today.
Am I forgotten?
I cannot sit still
With this possibility ringing through-
With access to nearly a million people
In my back pocket-
How could they all forget me?
I'll admit I am a self-absorbed attention *****;
A product of the 21st century.

I am so ******* sick of hearing songs about boys.
I am tired of looking into the eyes and into the hearts of beautiful, lovable women,
And finding emptiness that shouldn't be there,
Voids left by lovers who should have never been let in.

I'm sick of poems about the way his hand felt on your chest.
I'm sorry that he wasn't reaching for your heart,
I'm sorry that you were blinded by the first person who pretended that *** means love.
I'm so sorry that you carried the weight of him on your back as he directed you in digging your own grave.
But he is not poetry.

He is not the way that music lifts your heart outside of your body when you dance alone.
His hands are not the hands that pulled you off the floor when you didn't think you had the strength to stand.
His mouth is not the mouth that keeps you breathing,
Alive,
Singing,
Kissing,
Laughing.
And his heart is not the heart that beats in your chest,
No matter how much heavier your torso seems since he left.
His body is not poetry.

But yours is.

They were your legs, weren't they, that walked you home,
Even after he knocked you to the ground,
Even after your knees buckled for him.
If I recall, your arms threw his **** down the stairs
And out of your life.
It was your lungs that screamed,
"I deserve more. I am more".
And it was your heart that bled.
It was your heart that prayed.
That hoped.
That loved.
It was all you,
Always you.

And that is poetry,
You.
You are the poem.