In every problem lies a poem.
The story of our lives.
Our futures.
The intertwining of atoms 
As thoughts become something tangible.
The pad plays therapist. 
Yet i remain me.

In every damaged seed.
There’s a poet’s words tilling the grass.
Working the fields anew.
Sewing through thoughts of destruction,
As much as a raven wills itself to grow back from its ashes.
A path paved to be washed anew.

Because in every poem,
We exorcise our problems. 
We escape.
We heal.
From tough loves and tougher lessons.
We live.
We are the highs and the lows.
We stain pages.
The pen and the heart flow in tandem.

And in my every poem Lies me.
This bittersweet history.
Splintered pieces of my memory. 
The pen blowing fixes into my corruption.
Like how we’d blow into old memory cards.
Here lies a man working through his issues.
A force to be reckoned with.
On a path to his own greatness.
A PROBLEM.