Teacher says, “the true student begins with questions
And ends
With more questions.”
What world is this
in which some something
cannot be anything
without the confirmation
of some someone or some
something else?
Who among you
Knows who you are amongst?
How many
How-manys
can however produce
when never has nothing
to gain or to lose?
Where is it written
that it must be written?
If you don't stop to think,
then you're thinking too slow
And if you can't hit the brakes
then you may never know,
because knowing is nothing
but questions that grow,
And nothing grows quickly
but bad news and snow.
However,
Forever,
You'll however away,
Asking, “How many how-manys
Will we need today?”
And
“Who owns my possiblies,
my nevers
and wont's? Who's saying do this?
Who's saying don't?”
This world is nothing more
than a repetition of again.
Retrace your steps.
Back there is a friend.
Good questions make good students.
Good answers make good tests.
Confusion is the messy bed
on which the poet rests.
I never learned a truth
That hadn't once been a lie.
I never met a fear
without a reason nearby.
The beauty of a joyous tear
is nothing
without an I.
I think I'll write a poem
With only question marks and screams.
I'll call it, “Whatever You Want it to Be”
And write it with pee,
Then I'll sell it to me
(for a small fee)
And place it on the wall
of the question gallery:
It's a jubilation of the visible sort
Like the representation of pain
Or a sarcastic retort
On a level much higher than low
Will ever know.
It's a chance for us all
To grow.