I propose the whole world
can be explained by
just eight letters.

A. B.
C. D.

The beginning
of the alphabet.
Four letters to explain
all of humanity.
The characters are the
representatives of Time and
space. Mere parts in the
sum of the whole.
Every era known to mankind is
encapsulated in
the four letters at the
beginning of it all.

T.
I.
M.
E.

Time Emits off our fingertips.
Refracting like light to make
incandescent rainbows
with a cloud at one end
and a *** of gold
at the other.
Seeing the
rainbow is the
promise that reminds
me we are given
just a fragment of
of Time to spend;
We are just one coin
in the *** of life’s
circumstances.

E.
M.
I.
T.

The combination of
letters almost
reminds me of a
childhood fantasy.
Because once upon a
Time I dreamed dreams,
and those dreams led
me to Harvard or
Yale or to MIT.
But the dreams died out
and the refracted
rainbow-***-of-gold delusion
gave way to
pure and un-adultered.
black and white.
Logic.

EMIT equals TIME
re-arranged.

Two words with
completely different
meanings. Yet childhood
is the thread that
connects all the run-away
dots together.

And then we’re back to the
beginning. Just those same
four letters,
once again.

A. B. C. D.
equals
B.C.—A.D.
re-arranged.

B.C.—A.D.
Equals
T. I. M. E.

Proof that this is
the over-arching
story of it all.
This is the History of
our people.

I was born on Sepetember the third of 1998.
I was born two weeks early,
but I, to my mother,
was always a week late.
I've always been in-decisive.
You see, some people are born
holding AR-15's,
But I was born holding a
bright red bubble gun.
Maybe it's just that I'm
a girl, but I
barely know what a gun is,
much less
how to fire one.

My brother was born
three weeks early,
his gun was fully loaded,
stocked full of ammunition.
He easily fires round after
round of laughs straight
into the crowd.

When I was little, I
couldn't tell when people's
ammunition was real
and when they were
just firing blanks.
whether all people had
bubble blowers like me,
or if I was peering down
the barrel of a long bellied
rifle-snake.

my Father tried to warn me,
but my mother re-assured
him this was a
"phase I would grow out of,"
my brother tried to prepare
me, even
gave me his dart gun
full of laughing gas,
but I couldn't get the
hang of it.

It wasn't until later that I
learned if you wanted
to shoot straight,
you couldn't shoot up
first.

On the first day of
third grade, I
brought my bubble blower to school.
I thought that since
guns were illegal,
I would be immune.
I didn't know that
even a dull
toothpick is enough
to penetrate
a bubble that I
used to think was stronger
than steel.

But you.
You were always different.
You know how they always
say, "Don't bring a knife,
to a gun fight,"?
Well you brought yours
anyway.
A green jagged dagger
with your name engraved on
the side, Jaiden.

On that first day of third grade,
we were brand
new insurgents.
We lacked the right kind
of ammunition to survive
in the jungle they
called third grade.

I've always been a quick learner,
but. You
stuck out like a sore
thumb.

You see, you talked
a little funny,
and hitched your pants up
when you ran.
And you weren't exactly
what they called,
"pretty."

Sometimes differences
make you more alive.
But mostly they paint upon
you a big red bullseye.

Some people,
are born with snipers
in their hands,
Jaiden

And the snipers, they
didn't have a hard time finding
the big red target painted on
you.

I lucked out, you see,
I've always been
a fast runner.
And somewhere along the road
to fourth grade,
I exchanged my red bubble blower
for a black ****** rifle.
And it wasn't that much
different for me to
Run and zigzag.

Jaiden! Don't hike up your pants.
Just run and zigzag.
Jaiden, Please! just Run and zigzag
Jaiden! You won't survive this!
Just Run and zigzag.
Jaiden, Please just
run and zigzag.
Please.

We loaded guns full of ammunition,
well placed taunts
aimed directly at her flaws.
We picked her apart.

Jaiden Bailey moved the next year
We made her life a living hell.
When given a choice,
Be a bully or be the bullied,
with much shame,
I admit I chose the opposite
of Robert Frost.
I chose the road more traveled by
And that has made
all the difference.

Eyes closed.
Deep breath.
and iBreathe
in. out. In.
Out. in
Begin.
Words pour out of my mouth like
Silk.

You could hear a pin drop.

My brain and my mouth lose
Touch.
I'm not sure of
the words I
Speak.

My hands are shaking.
I grasp the podium,
but through the cold sweat
it's hard to get a grip,
and iBreathe.

My face is hot,
I swear, I must be running
a fever,
and iBreathe.

My leg is trembling.
I promise, I'm not seizing,
my brain and my leg are
simply no longer
connected by the neurons
that keep me alive,
and iBreathe.

Both feet flat,
Flat like they are
Flat without an arch,
and iBreathe.

You know the words,
just Remember,
and iBreathe.

Breathe, even though
your heart is
catching in your chest,
and iBreathe.

Breathe, even though you
Cannot
catch
your
breath.
and iBreathe.
Just Breathe.

End-stopped line.
Finally,
I breathe,
Gratitude.

Applause,
and iBreathe in deep,
Relief.

I write for someone whose name I have
            long since forgotten.
I write for someone new each time pencil
            hits page.
I never know who the words will pour
            out of my heart
                                                 For.
I write for you and I
write for me.
Because
I'm Selfish like that.
So with both our minds in heart,
I transform blank page into a mine-field
            of words.
That mine-field is my dearest friend.
It is my worst enemy.
My Achille's heel. The mine field that
           gives me life
                                                  Also
steal­s my breath.

So I write this to you, and maybe the death
           of this artist can
                                                  Save you.
Maybe a glimpse inside my head
           will be your
                                                  Salvation.­
So I write this to you,
for once, with entirely
un-selfish
Ambitions.
That you might
live.

If you live,
and I die,
then that is a
note-worthy

S a c r i f i c e.

Don't approach a dog unknown to you
Holding out your hand, making eye contact
You may frighten him
Let him come to you

Don't write a poem uninspired
It won't work out
In good time
Let it come to you

Don't go out there seeking love
Like a child with a butterfly net
Live your life
Let it come to you