school poem. video of me doing this coming soon

A

B
C

D

F

i don’t remember much from my childhood

but i still get an itching that i am missing a letter

it’s on the tip of my tongue...

but it doesn’t matter. these 5 letters define my character

A-Above proficient levels. fully grasps material.

B-Barely has trouble understanding the class.

C- Can do better. Average at best.

D-DUNCE! One step up from 1st grade vocabulary and 3rd grade understanding.

F- Failure. Try again next time. Go directly to jail. no re-do’s

My circle of life is limited to the 3 hole punches in my papers

I am sorry officer, but i can’t seem to find my registration

I guess i voided my return policy

i am just an appliance to you

they blocked some websites on my school computers. It screams:

“We can’t let you know there is an outside world

We can’t let you know life isn’t decided by that paper you didn’t spend the obligatory 5 hours on”

I broke the status quo and left the scatter plot of normal data as i refuse to be average anymore.

I want to be Excellent

I want to Ecstatic

I want to remember what comes after D but before F

i donate my life to the PTSA

may they use it well,

or throw one hell of a faculty party

I wish to state my intentions.

i am here to defy stereotypes

i want to exceed expectations and fulfill horror stories

I want to be different

I will raise my hand to ask questions

like “dear mr teacher:

Do you think if you cut my heart in half the biopsy would be as shiny as the apple on your desk

are my lungs meant for breathing or simply as a use for chokeholding me when needed

Do my eyes show the the same text from the books i read every night

copy them from paper to pupils to test”

i am just a pupil

a speck of dust collected on your diploma

as if it was a trophy that you survived where i am now, and have come back to make mine worse

sharpen pencils and call them number 2 to inspire competition

i remember the day that you let slip

that you didn’t know everything

i held onto it

hoping to one day best you so that i could....end up right where you are now.

“Mr teacher,”

I shake nervously

“what comes after the letter D again? I can’t seem to remember”

He replies “F of course”

And then i say. “No. before F. After D it Evades me.”

he is about to choke as if

trying to regurgitate guidelines

Do not let children know that there is more to life than grades.
The bell rings. I go to the library and take out the alphabet book...

It has 5 pages.

A-is for amazing

B-is for better

C-is for crestfallen

D-is for dumb

F-is for flunking. you never want to get an F.

I jolted forward and scream

E

E is for everything

E is for effort

I run to the main hall. and write E on every surface until the school officer asks “why”?

I smile wide and clever and say

“no. this is an E.”

...

he doesn’t laugh.

When asked what E stands for i answered Escape

E is an opportunity to leave.

but i promised i would defy expectations

so when i graduate. I will write F on my diploma which stands for FUCK THIS

and when my children are born i will teach them that F is just a letter

but E is a state of mind

unfinished love poem

when we fell in love

cupid must have fashioned an arrow out of titanium

to break the perfectly polished steel spine you built up

must have had blueprints to your heart that he lent me

so i could unlock that vault you knew all too well

hid your misery under padlocked protection

and sanctioned love as if it were a rare element

but you didnt understand that on the periodic table when U and I are together

they cant even contain us on that motherfucker

so we made our own rules.

our own lives.

and i became a wordsmith

creating shining similes and marvelous metaphors

like they were pieces of metal made to pick a lock so tight that even your parents gave up trying to figure it out a long time ago.

and i made compliments that kept your heart pumping like a pacemaker

when all you wanted to do was quit

so i guess i was your mechanic.

kept you in tune and replaced leaking eyes as if they were oil

poem for a friend. this is old, but she likes it

She was born into a prison cell and knew the embrace of a straight jacket all too well

she was cut off from everyone and with nobody to hold on to she raised herself up

because her father seemed to live in shadows and the corner of her eyes,

so when she cries she can see his reflection.

she was numb

so she would take the barbed wire from the fence and wrap it around her arm until she felt like it was hugging her DNA

she was probably trying to grow a thicker skin but the metal hit her bloodstream

and she didnt become iron woman

but it sure as hell explains her steel spine

so when people started reaching out she panicked

raised in a penitentiary

in a state that cared more about crops than education she took the tar from her heels and rolled them up into cigarettes so that when she was older she could smoke them and taste her childhood

that bitter sweet taste of love and lies

like a candy bar

filled with razor blades

the comments cut a little deep when she walked into school with long sleeves in the middle of june

97 degrees but she had more fire in her pinky than the sun had in its lifetime

so she was used to heat

and when she was cold she would wrap the barbed wire tighter so she could feel like something was embracing her

she was put into another prison and it goes from dont drop the soap,

to dont drop the act

everyone is fake

dont let them see your real pain

hide it under long sleeve shirts that you have scars from where your childhood has stained your present

you werent packing heat, just a pack in the heat

when i first saw you

i wondered why you acted like you were more used to handcuffs than handshakes

and more used to to a metal knife

than a hug

so when i first saw you and extended my arms

you cringed and i worried because i was hoping you would feel safe

but everyday you come in with a different outfit

However if you look close they all have the same number

Inmate: 0001

You seemed comfortable in a jumpsuit

And i realized that this prison dangled the key to your cuffs in front of you

but you gave up trying to reach it

So when you werent looking i kicked the guard and stole the key but i found out that you preferred to stay shackled

you made yourself out to be a monster in your mind

but that’s what happens when your nightmares become your play toys

you blur reality with misery and call it life

scribbled and fucked up a piece of paper and said it was your past

so i handed you a new sheet and an eraser and said

“than this is your future” i unlocked your handcuffs but you still keep your hands behind your back

and your guard up

so i finally got the courage to ask:

why did you lock yourself up inside prison walls that only you can see?

why did you limit what should be free?

why dont you want to come out of your cell?

she told me

“it’s because the bars to my cells are written in the double helix of my DNA

my past would indicate a less than ideal tomorrow and my genetics dont scream success so i would rather lock myself up before i become a train wreck

and i began realizing

how can it be a train wreck if you wont even start the engine

your wasting your ticket to life so i busted you out and told you shed your shackles and be all you can be

and i handed you a piece of paper while you ran away from hiding

and on it was a picture of a cloud and this poem

because your roots grow deep into the earth, but the sky is always the limit if you just keep on growing

my final poem...out of place on the blog.

This is the last poem i ever write

Because i cant even remember my own words over the numbers repeating

9.2

9.7

9.3

5.3

8.1

See the slam runs my mind more often than the similes

and in the modern world it is more about the points then about the poetry

but something doesn’t add up y’all

See i get up here, bare my soul for you to poke and prod at

and i even let you judge how well my hand translated the memories

but all i can think is

i got that really annoying sweaty translator

who did this as a summer job and doesn’t speak the language very well

see my hands are already shaking and i am not even half way down this paper

and that single bead of sweat rolling down my face but if i wipe it away

i lose the audience

so i let it slide down even though it bothers me

so much

but what do i care?

this is the last poem i ever write

so you know what?

THERE

and another thing, if i am going out

i may as well go out strong. loud booming voice, not a timid one hiding behind a mic

like a kid not ready to share his toys with his “friends”

i think that is what i hate most about slams

it reminds me of being that awkward kid on the playground

hide from the bullies and the teachers telling you to suck it up

you feel alone,

see i have been interviewed and questioned 4 times about what poetry means to me

and every time i say family and freedom

then i guess slams, are the battlegrounds and poetry becomes a new type of linguistic warfare

so i may as well drop a few “F” bombs to impress the war generals

but when dropping them so senselessly,

it becomes redundant

so more often than not, i like to stay silent

see slams bring out that evil side of me

where i would rather pull myself up on top to win

than lend a hand to a friend who is falling down

slams taught me a lesson

i learned it this past Saturday when i went to a role model that i look up to and talked and asked for help with practice,

and she said “we are rivals now, we should work separate”

slams are the fracture that doesn’t heal quite right

so you constantly get those muscle pains

and you walk like someone hit you in the gut

because it sure feels that way

but i am used to it

i am sick of it

And another thing,

since this is my last poem ever,

i want to go on the record as saying

“I AM NOT A CHILD”

do not judge me differently because of my age

i started writing in 7th grade,

but that doesn’t mean that you should see me as younger, because i am the same age as many of the adult writers today when they started spitting

so please, one more “but you’re so young”

and i may show you what the underside of a chair feels like

if i seem angry

or upset

i apologize

but i needed to summarize to get these lines down

because after this

i quit

no more

this my last poem ever

i am the childrens book of poetry

because Ian had a terrible no good very bad day

in the world of slams

so i am done

like a stoner, i used to inject myself with emotion to turn my blood into ink and write my life into a poem

mix my nightmares with my memories and write pieces that would let you see the monsters that inhabit my ever swirling head

so i ask them to quickly fuel my mind so i can crank out another poem

because i need some new shit to get some good scores

but now i would like to tell everyone that

since this is my last poem,

i had a checklist

see i had my last poetic meal

i gobbled down metaphors

and similes like i had never tried them before

but they didn’t sit right with me

so took 2 tums and let my meal write my obituary

but i wanted one request

see judges,

i want you to look at me

and read my lips when i say “ i don’t want you to let me through unless i earn it, and i want you to know, that from now on, my pieces will be like whose line is it anyways”

because the points don’t matter

it is the poetry that counts

and it is likely you will give me a score high enough to keep me wanting more

but low enough to not let me pass

keep me coming back like a poetry addict

so give me a 1

because i am done

and i know you couldn’t care less about what this all means

but i want to take this time to apologize because this, will be my last poem ever

sandy hook poem

I wonder if nursery rhymes were included

I wonder if they remember their first steps

walking in to a future so bright

but a world encased in shadows as humanity strides towards the dark of midnight

strike the bell 26 times and let the sounds ring so loud that they can still hear them

play the songs of their life at the funerals

These poor children barely knew their ABC’s when they were pronounced DOA

Dead on arrival

Future presidents and families discontinued due to an expiration date on the collars

of the full metal jackets

One size fit all

i wonder if the reaper wears a blanket cause he is secretly a kid hiding from monsters

I would bet that even death didn’t want to pick up his phone on December 14th

i bet there is a shelf in ethereal eternity with the words carved in the side: Newtown Connecticut, Sandy Hook Elementary, Never forget.

Never forget

Plastered images of a mans face crazy enough to hear the voices but sane enough to learn how to load a chamber

50 caliber

a number near 10 times older than it’s victims

i bet irony is lost  in the afterlife

I wonder if tears can break the laws of physics

because i bet the parents could drown in them when they heard the news

Caller ID can sometimes be a double edged sword

warn you of annoying callers

but seal death with a ringtone that sounds like a flatline

i think the earth got confused when they made holes too small to be buried

I wonder if it mistook them for seeds and grew flowers instead of futures

I bet that kids confused gun shots with door knockings

open up to see a man holding a piece of paper with your name scribbled in blood

you were called before your time

answer the call to destiny but it turned out to be death pulling a prank call that went a little wrong when a small child picked up on the other hand

I wonder if voices sometimes wished they were silent

If voices stood silent as sam instead of screaming plots of murder in Adam Lanza’s mind

The children at sandy hook might have traded fully loaded magazines for textbooks

aim down the sights to the kids who can’t see their own demise in the son of the math teacher down the hall

I like to think the children knew what happened after

I like to imagine that they understood this man was troubled with problems ignored too often

If warning signs were observed when exhibited in people,

he might have looked at the box of bullets a little closer and read the label saying:

WARNING! once fired this can not be undone. You will stain your past with blood and execute futures faster than rapid fire progression of skizofrenia

but he managed to miss the warnings

and the next day morning turned into mourning

as we remembered the day that the targets wouldn’t have even fit in bullet proof vests

and the clock moved further toward the black of night