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Bailey Jun 2016
I was taught to add and subtract at the age of four. My twenty year old mother would sit me down on the grass while waiting for my aunt to get out of high school, and teach me my numbers on her big, scarred hands. I was five when I realized something that would change me for the rest of my life. The number six and the number four are both just one away from being a solid five.
At six years old, my classmate and I were given our daily snacks. My friend had gotten six crackers, while I got four. I asked, “may I have a *******?” She reminded me that I had already gotten my napkin-full of crackers. “But if you give me one, we will both have five.” She bugged her eyes at me.
“I wanna have more,” she said. I shook my head at her, and ate my four crackers.
I wanted to participate in my elementary school’s food drive when I was ten years old, and in fifth grade. I was motivated to make a change for families in need of canned food. When I went home and asked my mom for cans, she explained to me that the cans that my schoolmates were donating would probably end up in our pantry, because we get our food from the local foodbank. I looked up at our pantry. I saw some dusty cans in the back that hadn’t been touched, and multiple cans next to them. I then remembered when we didn’t have even one can, and thought of the families who didn’t have even one can right then. And then I thought: But we have six, and they have four...
A homeless man and I both had five the day I bought him a sandwich when I was fourteen.
My best friend had four when she was sexually abused, and I gave up one when I shoved past the school security guards and got her to the hospital at the age of fifteen.
The year I turned sixteen I figured I had six when I realized there was an unfairness at my school. I gave my fellow students one when I convinced the principal to make a change about it, after being sent to him for disturbing the class with my speech.
I gave up one of my six when I turned seventeen and wrote the inspiring story of my brother’s car crash, for all of the people with four in their broken hearts.
As long as I have six, I will continue to give one. I won’t stop until everyone has five, and the world is one big ten.
Bailey May 2016
I sit here now typing away at my beloved laptop
that I got for Christmas.
Something I never in a million years thought I would have.
I sit here because I was assigned to write.
Write about what? I'm not sure.
There wasn't a prompt,
just some Langston Hughes poem.
But I'm not thinking about that poem.
I'm thinking about other schoolwork and tomorrow
and faded memories of an old friend
leading me down a cold, black street.
I'm thinking about the burger I ate that night and
about how I'll never wake up on time at this rate.
My high school career in a nutshell I guess.
Being assigned things and half-assing them.
Then painting or writing poetry afterward
when the papers have already been turned in.
Rarely able to put myself into my assignments.
I tucked my mother in ten minutes ago and I should be asleep but
this assignment matters
even though it does not.
It does not matter to me
in it's original form
as a microscopic detail
in my big portrait of life.
Assignment-
grade-
percentage-
GPA-
graduation-
college-
gr­aduation again-
more college-
career-
money-
food-
survival-
.
Of course I have passions,
but my teachers do not see them
do not experience them
because they cannot assign me to
do what I want
express what I want
learn what I want
for a grade like
I am doing here.
So I cannot bring my passions to high school
but who cares?
All I have ever cared about
since kindergarten
when I decided not to drop out
was getting to a university.
I have dealt with
busy work and bullies
stress and standardized tests
and missing six hours, five days a week
of my life
to try and get to this place.
A place where
I wouldn't have to ask for a pink crayon
to draw an udder
on my udderless cow.
I could just go buy a pink crayon
and redraw the whole cow myself if I wanted to.
College for me was
the place where I could finally learn
information relevant to what I wanted to pursue in life.
The things that I am learning in high school
are fine I guess...
intriguing most of the time.
But I know deep down I know
that for twelve years I've just been
moseying along.
Getting average grades only so I could reach
this place
where I could be free to learn about things that obtain to me.
Where I digested information
and didn't spit it back out for a grade.
Where education is optional and
my assignments would lead me
to something more.
More.
I don't think I did this assignment right,
but this assignment doesn't matter
even though
it does.
for AP Language and Composition
  May 2016 Bailey
mel
each day
i fall in love
with someone new--
but it seems
i'm only falling
for different versions
of you.
  May 2016 Bailey
SøułSurvivør
[10W]

------------------------------------------------------
|    MAN CANNOT SPEAK TRUTH     |
|WITH A LABEL OVER HIS MOUTH|
-------------------------------------------------------
I wrote a poem earlier today entitled
"The Maker of the Hill"

In this poem I described life is a toboggan ride. I also rode in the footnotes that my family was having trouble financially and despairing of having food for the rest of the month. Well I just want to let you all know that my church found out about our plight and is donating money so that we can buy food. Christians are not all money-grabbing. They are also very giving people. That is often forgotten when one sees the televangelists Etc. And my church is certainly putting their money where their mouth is! Hallelujah!!!
  May 2016 Bailey
Valsa George
As I closed my door and lay down to sleep
A poem came and violently knocked at my door
Being late, I put a rein on my desire to admit it in
In my sleep I could hear the faint sound of a knock

In the wee hours of the morn, as I sat up to house it
scattered phrases and broken lines floated around
A crazy excitement made me trap them in ink
But nothing worthwhile showed up on the writing pad

I found I had only violated the virginity of the paper
After hours of spasmodic labor pain
What came out was a stillborn with no heart beats
It lay limp before me and all excitement died down

It’s still body, I found had closely resembled me
Something of me was there stamped on it
How could I who had parented it
Callously discard it in a dustbin?

So I carefully stashed it away in a secret place
Where no one’s prying eyes would ever fall over it!
I am sure some of you too must have experienced it !
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