"outliers" poems
Society is a clay mold
Taking every newborn into its fold
Kissing each brow with insecurity, shame
Releasing it's victims, carbon-copies, all the same
Society is a line graph's slope
Plotting point ever upwards in hope
Shunning those who are different, who fight
Loving only those who are "normal", all outliers denied
Society is a disease, nipping at the soul
Filing and wearing down on the young and old
Breaking every innocent into a pessimistic, jaded mess
Rending, tearing, stomping, destroying whatever is left
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
The power of Averages,
it means a lot
if you can
understand Means, a lot.
Assuming a Normal Distribution,
A Standard Deviation, or σ
defines where about 68% of the data falls;
roughly 34% above and below the Mean.
Two Standard Deviations
defines where a further 28% of data lies;
14% above and below 1σ and -1σ.
Positive 1-Sigma is one Standard Deviation above the Mean
Negative 1-Sigma is one below;
The range from -2σ to 2σ includes 96% of data.
The implications are astounding.
Within 3 Standard Deviations, one finds 99.7% of the data;
Within 4σ, 99.9%, 5σ, 99.999%,
the remainder are generally outliers and other improbable results.
To illustrate:
Suppose we had a group of 100 people,
and we wish to determine average height:
If our Mean height ends up being, say, 180 cm,
with a Standard Deviation of 20cm,
We can suppose that of 100 people, on average,
with a certain Margin of Error that is inversely proportionate to our Sample Size, or n
(for sake of argument, the Probable Error, or γ, is 13.49cm)
4 are taller than 220cm
14 are between 200cm and 220cm
68 are between 160cm and 200cm
14 are from 140cm to 160cm
4 are shorter than 140cm
--
Statistics is the parent of Probability;
Statistics is the Art and Science of Forecast,
Statistics paves the way for modern Science
Statistics is a powerful weapon in the fight against Ignorance
Statistics, however, are generally and intentionally misrepresented and thus misunderstood.
For increasingly accurate figures,
one must have a larger Sample Size
and a Sample group that is a representative subgroup
of the Whole
*This is intentionally abused
by most of the News
you read or see each day on Paper and Screens alike.*
If a "Statistical analysis" does not include at least
Margin of Error or Probable Error,
Mean (Average), Standard Deviation, and Sample Size
do not take it as accurate.
Depending on the source,
it could even be deliberately malicious.
Arm yourself with Knowledge.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Sometimes I think we’re all mere magnets
Pulling towards this, pulling away from another
Getting closer to your grandmother while fighting with your mother
Moving out to find your identity but shielded online by anonymity
I swear we’re all mere magnets
Tired of running towards our goals but happily running from boredom
Telling others we know so much but then adept to play dumb
Wanting a bigger slice of success yet unwilling to gift the beggar a crumb
Aren’t we all mere magnets?
All relationships looking for some big reward
And pulling away if our emotions become too sore
Yet, what if some weren’t really magnets but pretended to be
Could those outliers find one another and stick for eternity
So my dear, are you a magnet?
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 6:57 AM UTC
Outliers, nomads, vagabonds of sorts
We have many names, us unsettled at heart
One city, one place will never be enough
We travel, not to find ourselves, but to discover higher truths
We travel to meet people like you
Without said journeys, blank pages fill your soul
You whither and dry and just plain crumble
Colors haven't touched your eyes,
Wonders, your mind
Read all the pages you can possibly come by
I, for one, can say this is truly true
I've found wonder and intrigue,
But I'll always be most interested in traveling with you
s.q.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
A root of confusion in math
is not knowing whether a term
is a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb.
An equation is nothing but
a string of nouns.
But I may think about these nouns,
by their adjective or adverb
alternatives, for example,
which convolute the matter.
Verbs in math are really the outliers.
Thus, I've been thinking wrong
with "math is a verb" mentality.
The most common math terms are
nouns, which function alone
as subjects and objects.
What I think of as "doing math"
is akin to "doing porch".
It entails a deck, railing, stairs,
a chair, a roof.
So too, does math include these
things.
I walk on the stairs and deck.
I sit on the chair.
I enjoy the roof's shade.
So too, the things of math are
used via terms which are not
included usually in math terminology.
Almost the only verb used in
math is "think" which is convoluted
by the subjects/objects which I
employ during thinking.
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC
Maybe my writing
Will improve
When strewn over
Blue lined graph paper,
Tiny boxes,
Coaxing out order,
Perhaps even
Clarifying boundaries
Between crazed truth,
And detrimental lies.
The grid putting
Poem in context,
Poem like graph,
Displaying
Levels of THC
Depression
Number of Kisses
Tears Cried
Outliers of secrets uttered.
Box and whisker plot
Displaying anxiety,
Skewed data toward extremes.
No.
Linear writing would
Reveal the chaos inside.
I can't fit the poems
To the squares.
A graph can't really cry
The way a person can.
There's a losing feeling
Etched in pen
On a harshly graded
Parcel of mathematical quizzing
That a poem has no place to
Instill in me.
And no one would
Be able to read my work
The way they tell you to show it.
My poems have no color coding.
Definition between data
Becomes hazy as
Layers of black are added
In empty,
All encompassing anger.
And I smoke while I write tonight,
Haze growing,
Lines wobbled,
And I may have put a poem
On a piece of graph paper
But it's nothing like the math homework
That stays in my backpack.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
We were told freedom would make us artists.
We were told freedom would set us free.
But freedom made us consumers—
scrolling, streaming, drowning in plenty.
Peak content.
Peak noise.
Attention—the last currency.
And we are broke.
Then came the machine.
Infinite. Bespoke. Frictionless.
The tribe dissolved.
The story fractured.
Each of us—
a society of one.
Do not mistake this for culture.
Culture bleeds.
Culture resists.
Culture divides.
This is mimicry.
This is slop.
Outliers cribbed, stripped,
and rebranded before the ink dries.
This is the singularity.
Not awakening.
Collapse.
Not tribe.
Not ritual.
The machine as tribe.
Self-satisfaction—tribe enough.
But listen—
creativity still breathes.
Not to be seen.
Not to trend.
But to testify.
To mark the ruins.
To scratch in the stone:
A human was here.
Do you remember?
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC
Layout every human endeavor
In a rational grid,
As one would setting up an experimental ag station,
Keep careful data
on all the plot inputs and outputs
and I believe the data will
Indicate that well prepared soil,
Infused with the required nutrients,
The best pretested seed,
And optimal hydration
Will yield over time
Suboptimal performance.
Too many chiefs and not enough
serendipity.
(Hey, is that PC?)
Can you say that today?.
In an inevitable changing world
You need to preserve strange outliers.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
I feed from the leftovers
I breathe from the exhales
I stay on the undertones
I stand on the peripheries
I linger on the outliers
Of your thoughts
Your words
Your energy
Your soul.
I never get the middle
The center
The core
The wholeness
Of your thoughts
Your words
Your energy
Your soul.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
Love is love,
it’s not that complicated,
Love does not care what color or *** you or your love is,
because Love is all inclusive it doesn’t discriminate,
Love is colorblind,
Love Sees No Color Love wears Cross Colours jumpers,
Love is abundant, just ask Russell Simmons or Gloria Carter,
or her baby Jay Z or anyone else who is an authentic Lover,
Love is unconditional & it’s available to everyone,
regardless of class social status religion region or color,
it’s okay to feel good, smile you deserve it,
dedicate yourself to love, believe me it’s worth it,
you get what you give so give 100%,
remember to forget & forgive them, even if they’re not perfect,
because no person walking this earth’s surface is,
but you can still find yourself a good girlfriend or boyfriend,
as long as you’re willing to work with them,
& you two can still be your own version of Bonnie & Clyde,
can still be in love & serve them with services,
there’s wisdom in these verses here,
modern day scriptures for gangstas & hipsters,
they don’t call him LaLux or J-Hova for nothing,
no fronting true strength requires no crutches or addictions,
just enough Dedication as Lil Wayne to get to 10,000 hours,
as laid out well by Macklemore or Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers,
a Master of Self a ******* from Hell,
***** as hell but he cleans up well
I own all my Master,
you should probably own yours as well,
well,
the floods are coming, there’s some prophecy for you,
either ride the Tidal wave or get washed straight away,
washing the straight leg green jeans clean so there’s no proof,
only proof is us see our success & ourselves are Self Evident,
only witness God won’t testify against our business interest,
the evidence is obvious see we are all sovereign entities,
you are your own country so you are your own president,
a one person army a one person president,
who roams the whole globe everywhere’s their residence,
channelling these visions into verses of the present tense,
told you before I’m not a business man I’m a business, man...
Smile is continued in THHT3...
∆ LaLux ∆
an excerpt from poem #24 of
THHT3: The Hollywood Hills Trilogy 3
available on Amazon here:
www.amazon.com/dp/1950780023
If you've read this far I'd like to show my appreciation by buying you a copy of THHT3 from Amazon myself, seriously, for free. Just send me a Message here or on IG @aaronlaux
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 9:14 PM UTC
#13 | 31 Poems for August 2016
Listen to the love and freedom embedded in every figure of speech.
I pray that these words bless all the beautiful souls that they reach.
It’s weird how we find comfort in the pain we allow ourselves to feel.
According to the stats, some people live outside their means like outliers.
Pass the herbs so I can pass these words then maybe we can pass the word.
Sometimes my thoughts tend to overflow to the rim so it’s only necessary that you jump in and swim.
Feel the rhythm in my ghetto cries and urban blues.
As I write and recite poems reminiscent of those by Maya Angelou, Jasmine Mans and Langston Hughes.
God hears our prayers so I know that we are all going to be alright.
Luyanda told me that I can conquer the world as long as I have Jesus so who am I not to follow greatness?
You need to know the value of life before it gets taken away from you.
Will you be a victim of the past or pay homage to your mother’s womb?
I need peace of mind before there comes a time when my mind ends up in pieces.
Nobody ever listens but you appreciate my ghetto cries and urban blues.
So allow me to write and recite poems reminiscent of those by Maya Angelou, Rudy Francisco and Langston Hughes.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 5:38 AM UTC
My people, my people... that's all you hear,
But really, are we all equal?
You see it all the time, you see it in everyone's eyes, the laughs and the lies
As this happens, the river flows red
Crimes of hatred they say
On the news words are twisted
And once again my people, my people, the full story, we missed it
Turns out we're trouble thanks to the color of our skin, our age, the jobs we are given, the pride that we have and the knowledge we lack blamed for the world's problems, drug dealers and so on so on the crimes they stack
In reality, the real reality, not the imagination that extremists recall as reality but the cold reality seen through an immigrant's eyes, a minority's eye ,the youths eyes we are only here to help and create an everlasting peace between different cultures with slowly increased confusion, in confession we say to ourselves, we're all the same, consumers and buyers, but we all aren't, some of us are cons and liars, deceiving and thieving, but let's forget those for they're the outliers, progressively we're changing, but sadly as people are aging, the change is non-apparent and when I say us, I mean us, the people, the wealth and the hunger not us the separate who preaches unity and yet has such things as ghettos and slums of which no one cares, to whose street traveled, no one dares instead of having one united diverse nation. without fear, separation, depression an intense sensation of grieving expression.
Illiterate and mute, that's my people, and I'm proud we don't need to speak to show you our speech is free, but if we could perfectly talk the language of the higher society, the language of the credible and flexible , we'd say we'd hate to have your liberty and prosperity, for we have something better; a family union, a home-cooked meal in moral values of which you do not, and that is my greater power, we live under the ignorance of Philosophy to whom the end of life there's no insurance people live and people die
anti-hate and self-loving policies will never die...Anti-state, anarchy to all my apologies for the wise never lie...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Sometimes I write nights, in the séance of the city
to the thrum of the sidewalk, the fume of the smokestack;
I scribble the madcap of it all, I furrow my nails in vinyl and dance
in memoriam,
my face blackened by storms in the crematorium;
there are those that watch the world through a window,
and those that are watched;
and if they have no voice in their manic stumblings; and if instead they
mutter
to the shadows for traction, to the swirl in the gutter, the outer rim of
silence
they will find a friction
to descend upon cement with an electric lunacy;
and though they will be outliers, they put out the candles
and write nights too;
within the funneled starlight, and the wheel of the sky,
we string our bodies astral,
in procession and out, similar in divergence, until similarity diverges
into steam and carbon
and time surges backwards to rejuvenate nights
and our visions are left clotted in their seams by
the dark.
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
Slobbering Morons;
Imbecilic Outliers;
Republicans All
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
We are raised with society surrounding us,
yet we feel the need to distinguish,
in-group ourselves with the outliers,
to live with our anguish.
In doing so we gain some right,
believing that different makes us better,
rather than live in that ignorant shroud,
and stand together loud and proud.
What we don't understand is in our drive to survive,
and seem entirely different,
we ourselves have joined a society,
and with that we have fallen into proprieties.
Hot Topic, and the slop that is gangster,
we wear to create a wall,
between us and conforming society,
who unlike us never heard the call.
The call to greatness,
the call to art,
the call to pimping,
we all had a start.
And now we sit in our ****** homes,
(trying to) make money by day ,
thinking where we went wrong.
How did I fall out with so many opportunities,
where did I fall off the wagon?
Well kid, it happened when your pants started saggin,
when you wore the black to stick out from the white,
when you refused to try because nobody "got it",
and when you were always looking for a fight.
It's easy to put the blame on someone else,
how else can you live with such dissonance?
Maybe if you had shut up and listened,
instead of dirt you would be the one who glistened.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Over there, I sat in my jeans and white blouse
with the long bell sleeves and the olive stitching
just to watch you do your math at the table next to me.
Reading, for the fourth time, the second chapter
of Outliers because it was the only part
of my life I wasn’t making up.
There were no eyes that glanced, fliratiously,
from seat to seat, just your broad shoulders
to my face. My face,
as I stared at pages of statistics
being the only one who knew that numbers
were **** compared to the way you could scuff me
like heels on the linoleum back to what wild
nights of believing that your hands
on my hip bones were really your hands
holding onto my heart.
Over there, with my hair tucked strangely
behind my ears, I cried. Not out loud,
but like I had been for weeks, through my smiles,
through my forgiveness, through your *******
I kept going. I kept hanging onto the thread
you pulled loose from the end and caught blaze
to yours. I drank my tea
and everybody stared at me, because they knew.
They knew! And you’d think that would make me
finally get up, leaving my heart in the trash can
beside your knee, but please
try to understand that I didn’t.
Instead I
drew palm tree reflections on the back of my notebook pages,
and I swallowed
every breath that I couldn’t find
hoping that you’d notice the lipstick on my cup
or how I only ever wanted you to be mine.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
There cannot be found a man who places me under more scrutiny than i place myself. Therefore, when i tell you something of myself, do not question its veracity.
Would that this statement were all encompassing,
but for my softening of my own knowing, and for my unknowings of my own blindnesses,
i entreat you, question me, and question me often.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
we are the outliers
the ones with plain
souls, the girls they
loved before they
were found, we
are the hearts
before the
discovery
we are
not
the
discovered.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
The minute shift it brought about
helped along by three pints and sneaky tequilas,
was enough
to generate
a fanfare.
For too long I have stooped,
trapped in the exoskeleton of an older world,
unable to move and unable to breathe,
for fear I will shatter the outer plates that hold me together.
But a little while ago,
I felt a crack rend the outliers, and a burst of colour I'd never seen before,
rainbowed happily through the split
So here I am,
cracking plates with rainbows,
with the Old World and an Exoskeleton I outgrew,
gathering new dust on the floor beside me.
And atop a hill moulded from wishful thinking and despair,
stronger arms build armour from a grin,
gnashing teeth and belly laughs.
So try me now,
because I am ready.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
Girls
they say they are not beautiful
they're not helpful or useful
but how can that be true
those guys who say they love you
they say it but don't mean it
they use women for their benefit
men like that don't deserve the light of day
those men who can't keep what they say
well i for one have a enough
love isn't tough
not if it's real
the type of love even outliers can feel
men and women should have that
no more this is right and that's crap
drop the walls
and stop all the heart break falls
Girls out there that a man break your world
listen to me a man don't make your worth
every woman
no matter where they come from come take the hand of this man
I'll be your friend
every Girl out there that's wanting the pain to end
listen to this and take it heart
you're gorgeous and man that's says you aint
needs to be out the door and away from you today
look in the mirror your use in life is more than those men can see
I learn that from the women in my life and the times that be
Girls you are our worlds
any man that says you're just another girl
tell him good bye and give the middle finger a whirl
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 2:57 PM UTC
In my father’s cosmology, God rose late come Sunday morning,
Having wreaked His vengeance by proxy the night before,
And it was a given that we greeted the Sabbath
With whispers and sock-soft tiptoe,
Knowing that his belt (black, wide, thick with implicit warnings)
Hung within easy reach of the bed,
Though sometimes, with no more explanation than
Man alive, what a beautiful world it is today!
Cold cornflake brunches would be postponed
(Our wonder mixed with consternation and rumbling stomachs)
As we would be whisked into the car
In order to sing His praises, our father all but jumping from the car,
Heading toward the preacher at a trot,
Invariably greeting him with *Devil’s on holiday, Father,
So here I am* (the church was Lutheran,
Though it could have been a mosque for all he cared.)
He’d sit through the sermon, rapt and at attention,
Alternately scowling and smiling, knitting his brow and nodding,
And then he would corner the incumbent occupant of the pulpit
(He’d have scarcely noticed, if at all, that the leadership of the flock
Often changed hands between our cicada-esque appearances)
Backing him into a wall or against a railing
While he jabbered away, pointing or grabbing a sleeve in punctuation,
Gesturing like some latter-day Prospero, arms ****** Heavenward
To embrace the air, the sky, the whole of the cosmos, amen,
While the pastor’s gaze varied from bemusement to outright horror.
Such occasions were outliers, of course,
Father being much more inclined
To spend his Saturday evenings in un-Christian pursuits
Then stagger home singing a litany of done-me-wrong songs,
And his search for a joyful hundred-proof clarity
Ended before he glimpsed fifty, that being time enough
(So the pathologist noted in his final judgment)
For his liver to become elephantine, his kidneys mere pebbles
(Those effects, be they deleterious or otherwise,
Not listed explicitly nor in the footnotes
Which accompanied the post mortem.)
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
One half of a crying moon sat in the June sky
An uncertain state of silence that I hate
A swarm of red lights from some farm device
Blink fiercely with a hive like intensity
Miles of metal fences leaning lazily
Held together by sandbag security
Could have been knocked over by a summer breeze
Unplanted fields yearning to be tilled and seeded
Punctuated by bare bones buildings and
Stark steel structures pulsing with electricity
Armies of insect swarm the tall lamp lights
Highways become rocky roads
Rocky roads ride out into dirt paths
Then circle back to the gravel covered tracks
Becoming the grey running highways
Nature and industry the strongest cycle
The strangest and straightest signifiers
Of nature’s outliers we call humanity
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
such a secret, is one that kills
hidden from the scary outliers
those lies laid down piece by piece
like our hands that entangle perfectly.
i'll drown in your company
fill my love up to the rim
clench onto your promises
and believe once again.
devour the hours--tick tock, tick tock
greedily gobble your butterflies
eternity spent in your tired arms
it's dark, breathe fast, up and down
temptation sparks at a moment's notice
clean my conscious and let it out
tell the world, tell them all
that i have fallen for you.
an inner strife towards constant honesty
but the exception falls on you
they won't understand, they can't
they simply won't.
i'll beg for acceptance
plead for nothing less
because, for now, i'm happy again
i'm happy again...
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
I wanna watch from an astral projection
As we sit on the hood of your car
Melting into cloud shapes
Calling this first love
We are water
Laying out our thoughts as the bricks of intentions
As we build an octogonal home for the sake of feng sui
Slow dancing on our land
Where the kitchen will eventually be
Selling cricket cookies, used books, art
Some outliers of the social clockwork
We trace the wavelength between us
Seeing past lives
As we feel in love as a square and a circle
As a lighthouse and the wind
As sin and beginnings
As aliens natural to other worlds
We two fire quantumly entangled beings slow dance where the kitchen will eventually be
Where will fry eggs in a wood stove from the chickens we hypnotized with our guitar and banjo playing
Just southern girl
Remembering earth inbetween her hands
As a girl who caught toads and rabbits bare handed and was so small amongst a field of sunflowers
She grew up.
Never lost sight of her inner light
Even in the dark ages of her mind
She her made way to you
**** that southern girl's
Heart sure is true
We all grow up
I hope we don't forget to fall in love
To go on adventures
To be a kid
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
the only difference between a safe house and
a prison is intent,
so don't lie to me.
i've bent bobby pins enough to pick it
apart,
the too close for comfort, the itch on your back,
how we tally it up, rally the rebel yells and the
outliers like broken lighthouses.
train tracks out of me, tack the endless question,
tackle me to the ground and start over.
I have enough scars, so forget it.
the food is on fire, but at least it's cooked.
cool metal handle, lukewarm water and smoke,
candle-like in the candlelight.
what was raw before is now ash. you've
made a difference, but
was it an improvement?
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC