I am a vast dichotomy of tasteful ideals.
I desire to dream the dreams most people deterred.

Paintbrushes touch canvases then lift
as if unsure if they should grace the world with their
beauty or hold back with chagrin.

Bodies burrow under blankets with
banned books instead of men.
I warm myself with beverages in a coffee mug on a
rainy day rather than
a body lying next to me.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R          e          a          c          h.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.

I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.

I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.

I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.

So I wrote a poem for the ages.

We’re under a vast illusion.
Somewhere along the line we
came under this impression and
somehow we think that
we’ll always have it all together.
Always have all of our
strings wrapped
perfectly around one finger.

That the earth will always
spin the right way.
That the weight of the
metaphorical world won’t tip our
planet’s axis .2 centimeters to the right,
uprooting the ground from
underneath of all of us
suddenly and all at once
the balances shift,
Kristallnacht.
A German word.
It means, simply,
Crystal night.
The night of broken glass.
The night of broken people and
shards of lives.
The night everything fell
apart, suddenly and
all at once
the scales re-arranged themselves,
Kristallnacht.
Mid-way into a thousand year
reign of 12 years.
The end of the beginning and the
beginning of the end.
The definition of destruction and the
physical representation of a
bubbling and spontaneous
hatred.

You see, we’re under a vast illusion.
We think that the world will
always look this way,
That we’ll always be
young forever.

You see, she used to run through
meadows, picking
wildflowers and daisies,
blowing dandelions and making
carefree wishes.
Running barefoot,
arms splayed out,
heart all akimbo through
fields of forget-me-nots,
singing about how he loves her,
loves her not.
Not a care in the world.
Then the riots started and
she couldn’t explain why
the meadow she used to
run in was suddenly full of
stones with names tattooed on the
front with a date.

Overnight, the balances
shifted and that 6 year old
girl seemed to age 10 years.

She saw it all.
Beautiful faces, beautiful minds.
She saw the world fall apart like
fluttering hearts and
butterfly wings at midnight.
People coming back together
in a huddle of broken
promises and forgotten hallelujahs.
A 1000 year reign cut short.
She saw the end of the
world as she knew it.
Saw the careless hatred
decimate her carefree meadow
of daisies.

She began to sing a new song.
Picked a handful of
forget-me-nots and
chose to love
like she did
before the night the world ended.

Thump Thump.
Butterflies crawl in my chest.
Thoughts swirl around in my head.
I can’t focus or see straight.
This is anxiety.

And it’s not something I
talk about often, though it’s
more common than one might
think, where my heart pounds so
loud and anxious
thoughts threaten to
drown out everything
that makes me,
Me.

You see, my brain sees simple
things incorrectly.
Texts and sometimes the
thought of leaving the
house sends
adrenaline coursing through my
system like
a thousand shots of caffeine
into my bloodstream.
The logical parts of me fled on the
first flight out of town,
leaving me to feel the tremors and
full force tsunami
on the ground.

Anxiety is a lot like love,
but it’s a battle not a dance.
A lifetime, not five minutes.
Unlike love, it’s often violent.
But just like love, it’s quite silent.

Anxiety feels like hunger, but stronger.
Like fear, but it lasts longer.
Writing this poem has quelled the
qualms that anxiety often spells.

I wish that I could be honest
about this part of me. But it's
one of those things you’re trained
not to talk about from a young age.
Because unless you’re depressed,
medicated, or heaven forbid
you’re not seeing a therapist,
then it’s not bad enough to qualify.
It’s not big enough to report.
I’m not suffering enough.

But if you could just feel
my heart beating fast.
If you could interpret the swell
of my tell-tale blush.
If you could whisk your fingers
through all of my thoughts.
If you could only
hear all of the things I’m feeling
but can’t quite express.
Then you would know that my
silence is telling.
I may be smiling, but currently I’m
fighting for sanity in my own mind.
The mind I feel is no longer mine.
I’m walking a dangerous
tightrope *****.
My mind is a minefield of poisonous
butterflies.
They threaten to swallow me alive, so
I tread the violence quietly.

I fear when I expose you to this
side of me, you’ll only see anxiety
or that maybe I’m lying.
But anxiety is not me.
I am more than mixed up brain signals.

The rest of me is cardigans in the summer,
because it’s cold inside.
I am mock converse and ponytails and
words on paper,
thoughts poured out,
slowly.

I just feel anxious
Sometimes.
More than normal, actually.
But I’m dealing with it.
And I’m no less me.

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.

Maybe she was born.
Maybe.
Sometimes she doesn't know.
Because to be born,
you must first be alive.
And she isn't so sure
Anymore.

She was born into a land
of gold and riches and fame.
Into a world where she is
Just another soul.
1/6.8 BILLION

So who gives a ****?

But then they wrapped like
a blanket, tight-knit
over her.
Warm, thick,
she didn't deserve the comfort they
Provide.

So she became
1/5.
Because there are four other people on this
Miserable
Planet who love her
with a  love simply not
based on conditions or
destination.
A love based simply
on existence.

So the four watched her grow
from infant to toddler.
And then four grew to
five.
And the love didn't change.

Milestone by simple
Milestone
they watched her grow,
Removing the blanket
bit by bit,
Until one day,
it was
gone.

Beautiful is how she sees herself. She is
Always full of questions for the one who has the answers. She is full of
Youth and vibrancy. Always taking chances and risks, busy
Living life to the fullest extent. She is more
Intelligent than she gives herself credit for.
Exuberant to the point of sickness.

Always asking the questions no one wants to answer. She easily gets
Lost inside of her own mind. She
Yearns for summer. But all she has are memories of all the
Summers of years past. If
Only she would realize that all we have is today and tomorrow will
Never come if she is too

Busy living in the past to
Accept and enjoy the pleasures of the now. She remembers all too well the
Remnants of days that didn't go as planned and if she's not careful she will get lost inside the
Remnants. She tries to remember that
Every day is not a reminder of yesterday, but a second chance
To live better
Tomorrow.

If I could pen a poem from
all my regrets, I would fill up
ten dozen notebooks.
And

if I could take back all the
things I wished I hadn’t said,
I could start my own
branch of the U.S. public
library.

And if I could wrap it all
up with one big gift-bow
and present it to you,
I would speak of the fragmented
memories of all the times I
spent with
you.

Because…

Five years ago, in January,
Hours turned into
Minutes and
Minutes slowed into
Seconds. And then suddenly,
all the time elapsed between us without
warning. And your ticking
time-piece turned out to be
a homemade explosive you
marked as ‘flammable’.

And if I could have just one
more minute to
tell you that I love you,
Just one more moment,
to say that I’m sorry.
Just…just one last second
to say goodbye
and to make sure you knew for
sure what I always knew that you knew;
Before the hours turn into minutes
and trickle down into seconds
Before all the time elapses in-
between us…

I would use those moments to tell
you that I love you more than Mercury
loves the sun, and that I long to see you
once again just as Pluto longs to
make one full rotation.
And I would tell you I will always
“see you later, alligator” and that in my
dreams, you will always be my
"crocodile-lover."

And how I’ll always go back to Summers of
how your fuzzy mustache tickled my
innocence during our special eskimo
kisses.

And that I’ll forever remember how you
pushed me on the swings singing
‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,"

And how you whispered to me sweet nothings
of how I always was your favorite.

And I’ll always remember that you loved
candied orange slices, gummy bears, sugar smacks
and your “top secret” chocolate stash
almost as much as you loved
your precious cigarettes,
almost as much as you
loved me.

And I’d tell you that I’m still
scared of lawnmowers,
Grandpa,
And that I’m scared that there’s
no man who will
love me like you did,
And that I’m scared that growing
up will make me forget.

Because it’s six years
and six million
tears later.
And I wish I could tell you
how many things have changed.
But the most important things
will always remain the same.
Because,
Everyday the hours turn into
Sixty Minutes and the
Sixty Minutes turn into
Sixty Seconds
and the time still
elapses between all of us as you
sing me softly to sleep
Even from below
Six feet.

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 sit at a table among
present company.
It's easy to say
away my nerves.
But the butterflies
won't stay at bay within me.

Nine years of
age is too
young to understand that the
distance that separates us
is only
One ocean.

He left her
standing there
on a cold street
corner
and all she could really
do was stare and
pray that she could
reverse the clock and
retrace his steps.
But the clock was
set and any
minute now,
she was set to
explode.

It's been nearly a
month now.
And I mark my days in
numbers.
Almost as if to remind me,
that my days are also numbered.
The numbers mark a new phase of my life, a new
place of development.
And the numbered dates are
in a way, comforting.
Number, slash.
Number, slash.
Number, slash.
The pattern repeats
consistently.
In a way it's almost
invariably and monotonously
sickening.
The numbered dates remind me that
Today
is exactly like Yesterday,
and Tomorrow is
exactly like Today.
It's this sick and twisted cycle that I
can't seem to break.
So I think for now,
I'll spend all of my
Todays thinking of
three reasons why Today
is not Yesterday.

Old Dan Tucker and endless
hours of hanging out at that little
coffee-shop-convenience-store you liked
turned into hours of writing about the
fragmented memories I have of the
time I spent with
you.

Five years ago, in January,
Hours turned into
Minutes and
Minutes slowed into
Seconds. And then suddenly,
all the time elapsed between us
And your ticking clock turned out to be
a homemade explosive you
marked as ‘flammable’.

But my clock still ticks on,
and deep inside of me, it’s
forever set to summer.
Summers I spent hours with
you; playing Old Dan tucker
on the piano, and singing while you
pushed me on the swings and I
screamed with utmost delight
and glee. I begged you to let me
soar higher and higher, still,
far away to heights unknown and
forever un-dreamt about.

Even back then, I thought I
was an angel.

But then
Hours slowed to
minutes, and while your
explosive clock broke down,
and minutes trickled down to
seconds and your beautiful lungs
that sang me pretty songs and
whispered to me how I was
your “favorite grandchild, “

Your once beautiful lungs were
as black and as dark as
charcoal is before
it burns up.

Though your lungs went black,
and the strings that held you
together were wearing thin,
your heart never did.

And even almost six years and
six million tears later,
you still hold our family together with a
glue as strong as the heart that
never stopped beating,
and as beautiful as the
lungs that sang me
softly to sleep,
even from six-feet deep.

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.

And I can’t stop thinking about
that kid from BVNW.
My heart hurts.
And I find myself crying tears that have
no reason,
no rhyme,
no purpose.

Because,
you see,
WE NEVER INTERTWINED
So why are you engraved on the edges of my
mind…

Our lives touched,
yes. But through the lives that others
lived.

I know someone that you
knew. Knew because
past tense is the definition of death.
That is all that death is.
Switching from
Present to past.

When I heard that a
tree fell at BVNW
I couldn’t help feeling…
Relief.
It wasn’t my school.
Relief.
Not again.
Relief.

I know it’s..
Selfish.
But I can’t help myself.
And maybe that’s why
I can’t stop thinking about
you. You consume my mind,
Blake.

Everyone around me
easily carries out
the day to day.
But I don’t know how anymore.
BECAUSE EVERYTHING’S DIFFERENT
now.
Another kid is dead
AND I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT
him.

Did you even know
that Blake wore
beanies?
Did you even care?

Sometimes I think I’m the
only one who so
deeply contemplates
death.

So If a tree falls
in a different forest
than mine,
then why am I feeling the
Reverberations?
I feel like I’m the only
one who
can.

How can you feel so much
for a tree you never even saw
Until it was a
fallen
tree.

So I guess this is a
letter to
Blake from BVNW.
Even though our forests
never touched,
I
heard it when your tree fell.
I
felt the reverberations.
I
felt the earth shudder and
readjust.
Because the balances are
different now.
And we must figure out
how to live once more.
How to live without your tree
in the
forest.

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.

i will
Always
go back to
Never.

we both said
things we regret and
promised each other with our
Nevers that we will
Always make sure that this
Never happens
again.

but with eyes as full as
empty skies;
eyes the size of
saucers beg
for this
secret meeting of
Nevers to
Always happen
again.

so one week later,
we find ourselves
at this place once more;
breaking promises
sealed with
Nevers and
one a.m. tear-
stained cheeks.
because
Never will
Always
Never be
enough to keep
You away from
Me.