"statistic" poems
I am the shadow of trayvon martin
Lying on the ground just as he did
I'm black just as he was
I wasn't planning to die that day either
I wasn't threatning nobody either
that day
The gunshots echoed
just as loud
when I was shot down as Mike Brown
yet his name echoes through the streets years later still
mine followed me to the grave
They don't care about me it seems
If I cried "what about me"
Who would ever see?
because my hashtag has even been drowned so deep in the depths of R.I.P's that I can't barely breathe anymore
When we think black brutality
Why do the names of trayvon
Mike
Tamir
Sandra
Rush to our heads just as fast as blood once rushed to theirs?
Does my black life, too, matter?
I can't blame you
That there have been so many deaths due to oppression and police brutality that they all seem to sound the same
No matter how loud we scream Black lives matter
We will never be seen as the living
But the potentially dead
We cry for justice to a system that's no longer built to accept us
A president that tries to forget us
A black voice will always be too loud to a world who never intended on listening
Who am I?
Besides a hashtag and a t-shirt with my face on it?
A black lives matter sign and a melanin fist?
A statistic?
I am black excellence
Regardless of how much sin you may see in my kin
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
To the teachers who never really cared and ignored my problems;
To my fellow ***** “misfits”, etc. Who will no doubt receive more abuse upon my passing, as my tormentors will no longer have me to push around;
To those who never cared, never spoke, probably never knew my name;
To the one true friend, whose caring was the only thing that prevented this event from happening sooner;
To the God, if he does exist, who chose to play a cruel, cruel joke on me when he placed me where he did and surrounded me with so many uncaring faces;
What about my teachers? Will they be sorry to see another student become a statistic? Certainly the administration and Principal will mourn, as my death will not reflect well on them as an institution. Well, I apologize for making the statistics for your administration worse. But I don’t expect an apology for the false sympathies of people.
As for my fellow students, those who made a more significant impact on my life, I know better than to expect my tormentors to mourn.
There’s another group I have not yet addressed: those not like me who left me alone. Or should I say ignored me. I appreciate you sparing me any further harassment, but your inaction, your withheld hellos and how are you’s did more hurt than any name calling. Your inaction effectively excluded me from student life, from the human race. You left me isolated and alone, and no words I could say can convey to you the suffering you caused. I could name names, but in doing so, I would do more now for you than you ever did for me in life.
I do not know what awaits me when I get down off this rope. Will there be a void? Or will I come face to face with God? I just don’t care anymore. If you’re anything like your people, I wouldn’t want to know you. You preached to love one another, yet I’ve felt everything except love from Christians. Even if I knew you were different, well, I'd still reject you. You have left your “followers” to treat people like me poorly. You have allowed so many of the people you “love”, including me, to suffer. So you want me to trust you with my life? I don’t want to spend eternity with a careless deity like you, or with the company you keep.
I’m trying to watch TV but I don’t know what I’m watching. It’s so lonely here. I want to sleep but it just won’t come. I’m so tired of hurting and being alone.
I hope that with my death, there'll be a wider awareness for child abuse and the effects it could have on a person. That's the only wish I have right now. A lot of people will be hurt with my passing, disappointed even, or maybe it won't matter. But I'd like to believe, no matter how much of a ****** up person I am, I died for a cause greater and bigger than myself. That's the only consolation that I have right now.
So that’s it. That’s me. Leaving the world to be a better place.
Goodbye - T
© Copyright Tyler Atherton
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 6:41 AM UTC
I want to write a poem about you,
but all the words sound good in my head until they get out on paper.
I can't make anything out of the slur of words I wish I could say to you.
There's a sentence for all the years I want you to have back,
and words for all the days you spent waiting for probation in a cell.
You are still just as much of a man as you were before they stripped away your sanity.
They say that people make mistakes,
But you had to give up most of your life for just one of yours.
I like to think you spend so much time in the company of a bottle
because somehow, in your mind, you'll find the years that you lost at the bottom of every one.
I want you to know that Alcoholism is not a choice,
Nor is it a death sentence.
I want you to know that I do not bow my head in shame at you;
You are not a monster.
You are a child,
One that never got to experience innocence before it was taken from you.
You are not a trophy to be on display,
You are not a spectacle to be snickered at,
You are not a John Doe to be left lying in the cold,
You are not next week's breaking news,
You are not stupid,
You are not broken.
You are not a statistic,
You are not a stereotype.
You are sick.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
Tied up because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
One in the chamber
Two in the clip
Only a split second
Before your sanity slips
Street Dreams
Road Warriors
Lost causes rebel
Rob,steal,rape,kill...
They will
Trying to prove they are strong
Just to belong
That's not gangsta!
Your pants hangin off you
Make horny,burly convicts
Wanna rub up against you
Hydrofried and twisted
A walking statistic
Confident and content with failure
Same path passed on
You'll leave your fatherless children to cry
When your dead and gone
New sneakers,fresh cut, crisp clothes
But inside you **** like a black hole!
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
I can't name or count how many guys I've looked at approvingly thinking 'I'd love to **** him' or whatever people say when they give that approving eye glance and nod thing. Of course I do it. All the time. I'm eighteen for gods sake. I can look!
However,
I can count all the guys I've genuinely fancied on both hands.
I can count the guys I've really liked on one hand.
I can count the guys I've kissed on two fingers.
I can count the guys I've actually called my boyfriend on one finger.
But that is not the man I love.
None of them are.
Because he's not a statistic.
He's a part of my soul.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
What does it mean to be a Chicano/Latino in the US?
What does it mean to be Black in the US?
What does it mean to be a minority in the States?
You know what that means...it means that we have a lot to prove
As in the words of Booker T. Washington:
"When a white boy undertakes a task,
it is taken for granted that he will succeed.
On the other hand, people are usually surprised
If the ***** boy does not fail. In a word, the ***** youth
starts out with the presumption against him."
Now in a society where institutionalized racism,
Or racism without racists, prevails
We are disenfranchised from even being considered youth.
We are a bunch of wetbacks, idiots, moron...you name it,
Where failure is expected of us...
...but enough is enough, we should not abide to the stereotypes
And stigmas that society stamps on our foreheads.
As a matter of fact, I do not ever recall giving this white patriarchal society
My blessing to call me whatever the **** it decides to call me.
We are here to take manners into our own hands, here to do whatever the heck our heart desires.
We are here to create the change that we wish to see in the world.
We are here to become the few & growing positive statistics that we fight for.
We are here to create voice and shed the light on those wins that we take to our hearts.
No one is here here to reflect the stereotype that this ****** up society
Tries to slap us with on an everyday basis.
We are here to change perception of who we are and where we stand in society.
We are positive statistics...not a stereotype.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
dear girl,
i would like to apologize on behalf
of those that will never.
the world lied to you
since you were old enough
to balance a book
to listen, retain,
consume without question
i would like to apologize on behalf
of those that informed you
your value is calculated
by the sum of your parts
that you are worth the contrast of fat deposits
over the angles of fragile bones
i would like to apologize on behalf
of those pining characters they wrote you,
every soul with a haunting disposition
who was given the noble ambition
to invoke longing within those
that remain on the outside
of the glass
because the songs that were sung on the radio
cast you as the the inspiration
but when they painted you lips for love
they denied you the language of narration
and you lived your life thinking
you could invoke magic
if you were only willing
to wait your entire life
for someone else to conjure it
i am sorry
that we filled your head
with empty adjectives
to whisper in your ear
that you were nothing
unless validated by the eyes of strangers
seeing you as nothing more
than a commodity
for which to window shop
and consume
and when they abandoned their casual browsing
their wants transcended your right
to exist
and it was you
they chose to invade
to tear open
because after all,
you were man made
a nail scratching a rib
a void to fill up
with whatever poison they thought you’d look sexier
choking on
dear girl,
i would like to apologize on behalf
of the fact that you remain unnamed,
an improper noun
a caricature,
a statistic,
a silhouette on the back window
mouth a perfect oh
that will never know words
i am sorry that the second
you entered the world with two X’s
they would reduce you
to an exquisite tragedy,
place them over your eyes
and declare that the death of a beautiful woman
is the most poetic thing in the world
i would like to apologize
because this world was never
quite big enough to hold you
and we knew
and we saw
and we opened our mouths,
took a breath,
and we closed them
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.
Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.
Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.
A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.
The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.
The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.
Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.
The persistence of white power.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.
Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.
While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
**I **** & it's okay because
I **** for my country**
*Wait no, that was a father
that was a son
I watched the life ebb from
the body of an uncle
whose favorite color was green
who loved old music.
I turned this husband,
this pro stone-skipper
into less than a corpse;
into a statistic
a number.*
**I **** for my country**
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
"My daughter,
when you grow up (enough)
to be able to brandish self-sovereignty
tempered by self-discipline
I only hope that if and when you may choose
to try whatever drugs may appeal to you
you are least fortunate enough
to have access to clean ones
and a safe enough and comfortable enough environment
in which to study your interrelationship with them,
intellectually, physiologically, psychologically, spiritually, and socially,
but not necessarily in that order.
I won't tell you what to do,
but my advice is this:
Don't eat yellow snow:
don't snort yellow coke.
If you're gonna poison yourself,
poison yourself with the good ****
If you want to see whats up with something,
be certain your sample size is representative.
That's just good Science.
No one likes a false statistic
except those in power
who wish to remain in power
so maintain thy power
to wield thy freedom of choice
armed with an arsenal of personal experiences
sailing with an armada of accurate information
upon the high seas of this uncertain but certainly beautiful Life,
but be prepared to accept the consequences.
That's just responsibility.
That alone oughtta put you well ahead of the curve."
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
There's this voice,
in my head.
She screams at me.
I understand.
She says:
You're fat.
She says:
You're Ugly.
And I Am.
Overweight.
And it's not just a disorder.
Or a problem.
But a Number
That is a statistic
saying:
Obese
Overweight
The Tolerance,
to the treadmill,
That I Regret,
everyday.
And I can't do it anymore.
So there.
Goodbye food.
And anything else.
That tortures me daily.
Like the voice.
Her Name.
Is
Skinny.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty
This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame
It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do
Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic
Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****
It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow
When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way
Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion
The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong
People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Dread the free time
But still can't wait to have it
To seize peace and quiet
By my force of habit
And flee far away
From a central locale
Of a jobless, impoverished
Human garbage pail
Full of wasted potential
Unutilized power
Another kid lost to disease
By the hour
Devoured from inside out,
Parasitic
A malnourished mortality
Fated statistic
Accounting for little more than
A UN
Detrimental development
Index embellishment
IMF, World Bankers swooping in
Heaven-sent
Millions lent
Never spent
Back on the people
Just keep them like sheep
Marching on to the steeple
And reap what they sow
How so little they yield
Until cityscapes swallow up
Forest and field
And behind their most opulent
Optic facades
In their decadence festers
The graces of Gods
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem.
I told myself reliving the same traumas
over
and over
would not aid in the healing process,
but these are not
the same traumas,
this is not
another **** poem,
there is just
so much ******* material
that it's starting to run together.
She went to a movie with him,
somewhere public,
somewhere safe,
and still he drug his hand
up her thigh,
she kept her mouth shut,
tried to push him away,
wouldn't want to interrupt the best scene,
whispered
"stop",
he didn't listen.
He was in his girlfriend's bedroom,
watched her sit in silence
fuming
when he said
"no"
for the fourth time,
told himself to
man up
when she said
"what, don't you love me?"
He swore he did,
he just couldn't show it like this,
she didn't listen.
She was at his apartment,
told him that morning
she just wasn't in the mood today,
she shifted inside herself
as he kissed her neck
the same way he had
hundreds of times before,
forced a laugh as she said
"I really don't want to,"
he didn't listen.
She was sitting on his couch
when he put his arm around her,
unwrapped herself from him,
he told her to
"just relax,"
became comfortable in a body
he was never invited into,
she got away,
called her brother from the next street over,
explained to him from the passenger seat
that she had said no,
he didn't listen.
I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem
because I had convinced myself it wouldn't happen again,
had convinced myself that
my friends and family
were not a part of the statistic,
but every sobbing phone call
or hushed condolence
reminds me that
this happens every day,
that pretending **** culture does not exist
will not make it go away,
that 20% of human beings
in the United States
will be ***** in their lifetime,
that 20% of the people I love
will be ***** in their lifetime.
I keep telling myself
I will not write another **** poem,
keep reminding myself
to look at the facts.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
I was threatened
With tantric ****
Online
I refuse to be a statistic
I want to be a survivor
I refuse to be a survivor
I need to thrive
Through this
I found
Why I am on this planet
To stop this
From happening
To someone else
Not enlightenment
I know
The sad fact
That I am
Still a statistic.
But I am much more
Than that.
I am a human.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:41 PM UTC
Now he’s gone
I can’t go on
Feeding on this
Misery
We ****** him dry
What a great guy
His light side
And his dark side
Are a treasure to
Humanity
Nanoo nanoo
Your time is through
Your legacy
Your jokes
Your glee
Unfortunately,
You’re a
Candidate for suicide
A Statistic in your
Demography
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
It doesn’t matter what language you speak because all screams sound the same
It doesn’t matter what your skin color is because all blood runs muddy red
It doesn’t matter if you are afraid because everyone has the same fear
It doesn’t matter what god you worship because even the gods run in the end
It doesn’t matter how big your eyes are because they still cry the same tears
It doesn’t matter if your ears can hear because it’s always rumors and lies
It doesn’t matter what clothes you wear because we are all stripped of humanity
It doesn’t matter if you are smart of stupid because we are all suffering from insanity
It doesn’t matter if you **** now because we all die the same way
1 death is a tragedy
1,000 deaths is a statistic
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
My most monstrous fear that eats at me
(like a mechanic devours his rare, ****** steak)
is that one day I'll wake up and be normal
(normal as mothers publicly yelling at ADD sons)
that I'll lose my gifts, or any real form of expression
(like the misguided lawyer working on Thanksgiving)
that I'll be another faceless statistic in a fat, thick crowd
(normal as ignoring the gifts we've each inherited)
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 5:06 AM UTC
I am the oppressed,
and you are the master,
holding me since birth,
as I am evolutions disaster.
I have a tendency for violent outbreaks,
created by institutionalized racism,
they say be "normal", there are choices...
yet within our beliefs there is a chasm.
For I was born without an option,
and went where I was led,
my only freedom was my adoption,
into the gangs for whom I bled.
While society cites me as a statistic,
I am just an average man,
pushed to the point of being sadistic,
because for the blacks there is no plan.
Do not group me with the heathens,
or make me out to be a sociopath,
I went where I saw life's beacons,
and as a child I was caught in that wrath.
Someday this will all end,
that day that I will be dead,
revolution will strike society,
like a bullet in the head.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Why is it that she is gone? Yes we made our mistakes, but I refuse to be another statistic on another **** chart that shows why I'm a failure. You were the only light lit in the dark room I call my success I've been looking for the switch to turn that light back on but it appears that it's not the switch, it's the bulb but im just not ready to give up on this bulb just yet
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
2 times 2 is four, as my life path
always wonder if I am on the right path
wish I could calculate my path, extract the unknown
prove it with words and numbers, not just inner knowing and tarot cards
math is more believable to the severed body
I use other means to understand my body
holistic, artistic, there's always another way
deterministic, statistic, no place for the grey
calculate how best to waste your days
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 10:15 AM UTC