If you must fly away,
while I am laying still I will stand,
and break down walls.
I will run after you.
I will always fly after you.

A Mission of Our Eyes

We embarked on a mission of our eyes,
To find security within the pages of stories so calmly told.
As if each letter provided us with a personal inventory.
Speaking of the correctness within our wrongs.
Trying to convince us to stay, and as if fingers were plastered to the binding of this book,
I couldn't shut it, nor look away.
Brows lifted at concepts misunderstood and shuddered motions when read of our own instability.
Only green lights are shining.
Pushing us to move forward on our mission.
Crying at us, screaming.
Trying to emerge our bodies from empty buildings and crowded minds.   

E.e Cummings

"It may not always be so, and I say

That if your lips, which i have loved, should touch

Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch

His heart, as mine in time not far away

If on another's face your sweet hair lay

In such a silence as I know, or such

Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch

Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay

If this should be, I say if this should be

You of my heart, send me a little word

That I may go unto her, and take her hands

Saying, accept all happiness from me

Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird

Sing terribly afar in the lost lands "

Our Bathrooms are Theaters

As part of the lifestyle we maintain us humans become slaves to the schedule of the sun.
We lift our weary lids at the time it chooses to share its light.
Bearing our every fault.
a replay of activities from the night before is played in front of our eyes like a movie, the screen is the mirror.
Our bathrooms are the theaters.

Engine in my stomach

In wind storms, the wheel steers the car on top of  my bones, scrapes it's tires up my skin, and I can feel the engine running in my stomach, I can't stop shaking my damn leg. 
On this mission to convince myself that the wires connecting me to you are stronger than the strands of hair that fall off of my scalp.
The only thing I can feel is the metal spitting fumes into my ribs and even though I'm screaming out that this dust is blinding me, I cannot prove to be loud enough.
No body in the drivers seat, just conflicted notions, steering it's tires up my skin. 

i want this!

Math Class

I studied the curve of your smile.

The way your lips curled upward,

a crease on either side of your cheeks.

Points reaching peaks, your face is a graph. 

My eyes; the led and each darting movement of your expression is chased by my pencil and the mood changed, weather splits and each unit of your skin marked by freckles and weathered scars.

I refer back to the notes i had taken on smiles previous to yours.

and although pages are filled,  none of them explain how to graph your peaks and values.

your unlike any other, freckled points never moving and each of my coordinates remain steady on your sheet of skin. 

i want all of you,
right now,

right here. 

small plastic bags

in small plastic bags are my notes.
i've taken them while laying under tabled that hold candles and plates of food.
i listen to conversations has,
talks about politics and boring things.

untrue to their wings

across from the mill in your backyard is where the emptiness sits.
talks to loneliness and laughs at happiness.
feathers fall off of birds untrue to their wings.
and small minded picture frames hold frozen yesterday's and sometimes when i look out the window of your living room i can see those frozen frames come alive again.
as if the concept of breath was injected into the paper.
and smaller bowls of "hello's" lay on your windowsill, staring at the birds outside,
feathers falling from their wings.

green table cloth,
small feet running amongst isles of words, and i can't remember if you told me your name was johnny or june, and your hair is longer than when i last saw you.
blue eyes don't tell me much but thats okay with me because right before you fall asleep, you tell me stories about when you were young and how you would wander through concepts unbeknown to you.

i'd watch and consider kissing your forehead,
your blue eyes are talking again,
hair falling over your pillow.

i miss my dad.

Above the ground, you and I are trees.

Above the ground, you and I are trees.
I am on the western side of the hill, you on the eastern.
My branches over look the coasts of polluted lakes and vast greenery.
Yours hunch over cities explored and walked through, falling over streets and rivers.

I feel far from you, my branches don't reach to your limbs, and on a few of my extremities sit burdens and worries about the change of weather.
I don't stretch as tall as you into the sky, and I'm okay with that.
But I want to see the stars with you

Although above the ground we are distant, and undoubtedly lonely, both of our roots travel endlessly within the soil.
Our heads go in circles with branches in the air and although it's deep, and feels like it's hard to reach,
hard to feel,
hard to see,
we're connected.

My roots intertwine with yours,
they meet and flirt with the concept of diffidence and talk words that have to do with love and things that made our leaves grow faster with the thought.

In the middle of my idle trunk half of me is above the surface, missing you and longing to watch your limbs dance with the wind.
The other half of me is beneath,
underground,
buried below the loneliness of what I feel when the moon makes it's appearance.
And while underneath it all,
I feel you,
I hear your roots stretching to meet mine,
and I can feel you.



I love you.

Small and Fragile Like Ash

I know the hooves of those horses will be echoed back to you.
I know this because I have heard them at the bottom of everything, and like shadows they stand behind you.
Until your hands turn to stone, and your head becomes the turf in which they gallup on.
There will come a time where the sound of the hooves will fade into the blackness and you will tilt your grassy head back and all the horses will fall into the echoes of their own path.
You will blink your eyes and as the moon drags you by your dissatisfactions, you will break into pieces small and fragile like ash.
You will fly about like phrases in the air and the atrocity of this night is that the crows are stuck in the sky.
I shall bring you a bowl of your own notions and by spoon I will feed you until you are whole again.
The gawking of those smaller than you will cease and inside of your head, the soil will begin to cave in and it will engulf your very being, you will be swallowed up and galloped upon by hooves dancing to their echoes.

i'm so tired

i'm so tired of  being the shoulder to lean on
of giving the advice, and wiping the tears.
i'm tired of digging through every one else's buried shit, in order to find their problems, for them.
i'm tired of being the keeper of secrets,
the one who speaks when everything goes wrong.

i want to be loved too, you know.

i don't know how to explain my feelings. i don't know how to describe this lump in my throat.

under wide skies, i know a place where we can go.

under wide skies, lies the chaos of today
and within all the chaos,
we found safety.
a place i like to go, where people smile just because the wind is blowing, and there are no such thing as second guesses or secrets.

your eyes are so blue, but i know you feel bluer.
and i know this place we can go under wide skies.
the water is pure and if you feel broken, take a sip and you feel whole again.

" i'm screaming at the top of my lungs,
and i'm pretending that the echos belong to someone. "

inside of everyone

inside of everyone is a secret world that spins with every blink of frozen eyes.
and the seas on this planet crash and throw themselves onto lands untrue and deceitful.
the soil soaks up the the water, cleansed and purified,
and what is it we are fighting for?
because i walk from here to there and back here again, but my eyes are stapled open and this world that lays inside of me hasn't moved for days.
and i feel like i'm supposed to be fighting for something.
like i should be defending those without voice.
but i can't seem to find the means of reason.
or why my blood doesn't throw itself over my thoughts like the waved crashing onto lands full of lies.

that three letter word

if there is something up there, then why the fuck am i here?
and why is it up ? why not down ?
and the three letter word that starts with a 'g' and ends with a 'd'.
what does that even mean ?
Man? Woman? does this... this thing, does it get old ?
does it ever die ?
'cause everyone says, "no, he's always with us."
well first of all, "HE" needs to show his face...
because i cannot see him. i cannot feel him.
but it seems as if everyone else does.
as if when they fall to their knees with reason, and expectations to feel lighter, and convinced that their heads are clear enough to go to sleep.
i've tried...
doing this whole 'knees on the floor, hands on the side of my bed, head down', ordeal.
and every time i open my mouth to speak to this floating existence,
i get stuck.
and my thoughts that i try so hard to conform into sentences that fly out of my mouth,
well they become censored.
and i am afraid.
of what this...
this person in the sky thinks.
i don't even know him. i can't feel him like they do, but i am still afraid of all that he is.

floating sunlight

underneath the table is floating sunlight that doesn't move anywhere.
but stares at the weeds growing next to the streets,
and their whispering to you, coaxing you in to thinking it's safe to let the sunshine be poured onto you through a flask
you're glittering.
and the hum of the wind is sewn onto your skin,
and butterflies catch your breath.
but you don't like it, and you scream with a voice soaked in derangement.
you scream so loud that the mouths of fire places begin to dig their roots into your scalp.
and like wind and waves,
they swell and blow over you.
but you are still, and soft.
sitting in a chair, at the table that is home to the floating sunlight.

Theory of Knowledge Class - “ Compare and contrast our approach to knowledge about the past with our approach to knowledge about the future.”

“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt”

Everything was so simple, and spoons in morning coffee mugs stirred with purpose.

Everything was calm and we could hear the breathing of the trees.

The buildings were looked at with ancient eyes, and loved by every beating heart.

The pan of mirrors facing one another didn’t scare us away, but drew us in.

And we focused on the beauty, because it was what we saw.

And now we’re poised on pedestals. 

Carefully sitting in seats so fragile, so proud of your noble accomplishments. 

You had invested in a new set of china, 

Which really didn’t make you smile, but instead made the visitors to your home envy your ability to appear so put together. 

Everything was beautiful, and we handled the concept of feeling.

We immersed ourselves within thoughts of the wind, instead of thoughts of green paper in our pockets. 

We were sure of  the sunset, and felt free. 

But today it’s different.

We wake up and feel scared. 

And we used to be souls with a body attached. 

Skin that fell effortlessly onto our bones.

But now were bodies without a soul.

Dry skin yearning to be kissed by someone that cared, 

And bones that are tired.

Today it’s prompt phone calls to the relatives you never liked.

Its skipping breakfast, and polluting the air.

Cheating, and lying and convincing yourself it’s just fine that you’ve really forgotten how to smile.

When will it be how it was ?

Do the years which are meant to come promise simplicity and beauty ?

Do they express concern over what the sun has to say ?

We can no longer live this way.

We need to feel alive again. 

"you still hurt me" - William Fitzsimmons.

that song basically describes me right now.
i don't know what the fuck to do.

Theory of Knowledge Class - “Evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of reason as a way of knowing.”

I’m headed for a new land, 

Somewhere that I can re-evaluate what it is I have.

Somewhere that I can find what it is I’m missing.

Somewhere that I can level out.

Where I can break what it is I know, 

And fix everything I do not understand.

I am covered with freckles, mom says they adorn my limbs.

A finger tappin’ on the knee, leg shaking underneath the dinner table, my blouse a little too low for family gatherings, old loafers on my feet, kinda gal.

And yes, I know this.

I know that the marks beneath my nylons, aren’t because I don’t have any pictures of you.

I know their not complimenting my pale skin as those freckles do, 

And I know that when I clear my throat to speak my name, I’m not nervous about what the invisible thought bubble above their heads have inside of them. 

Or wether they’ll make a plan to love me, 

Or to snicker. 

I know that when I try to speak, I can’t seem to find words.

I know that when everything is lonely, I open up the glass jar that inside has your heart.

And even though it doesn’t beat, I know that it will stop me from wondering.

I know that I think too much, 

And I know that I need just wait and see. 

But I don’t know why I can’t.

My future has got me worried, and I keep watching this fan of pictures, blowing with the wind in front of my face.

And I’m just too afraid of all this change.

There is a list of things to do,  but nothing gets crossed out.

And I try to take some comfort from your written words, 

But I know I can’t handle this much longer.

And I know the glass jar that held your heart has been stolen.

This is why I need to find a new land.

I know I need to search for new soil to sink my toes into.

Because I know nothing about everything.

And everything seems so simple, when nothing is in the way. 

HL English Assignment. - Images & Writing.

The assignment was to reflect on each piece of art within two minutes, without knowing the title or anything about the artist.
After we finished, we were told the title and the age of the artist.
They were all children from Vietnam, their art reflects the war.
Each link shows each piece of art. 

Children's Art.


"The Sleep of an Iraqi Child"- 
 you can't hear it,
 but the city is burning.
and even though you're convinced tomorrow morning will be accompanied with yawns of a well nights rest,
instead all you'll see is ash.


"War Consequences"-
It's funny to think about what other people feel.
Hand in hand, fingers tight around yours.
Unity is symbolized.
and yes, i love you.
but i wonder what it's like,
i want to know the feeling of someone else's palm against mine.


"Peace After War"-
Our soil is yellow
the ground beneath my feet is warmer than the sun.
skies, red.
And the birds melt into the horizon.
your silhouette is all i can remember.
and my toes are sinking into this purple hill.


"War Consequences"- (first one)
no one has seen it
the drops of red that fall from the sky.
every time a plane flies
no one has felt the splatter on their shoulder.
the liquid that fuels our veins.

what i'm convinced is keeping me alive,

is really what's killing me.

i can't really

tell you how i feel right now.

i feel like i've been buried beneath the sand, underneath the water.
everything is floating above me.
some things walk on top of me.
and i can't do jack shit about it, because i'm stuck.

i feel stuck, i guess.
glued to my seat,
feet nailed to the ground.
eyes stuck straight ahead,
freckles stapled to my skin.

i need to feel like i can move again
i need to feel the music make me dance.

the one you once loved most.

gawking at your subconscious movements, the birds stare at  you.
perched on your windowsill, against the glass.
hours passed
and you reach your hands above your head as if the one you once loved most was pulling you close.

and by the morning you will be three steps ahead of the other beating hearts whose feet remained stuck in the door.
between wooden walls of personal accomplishments.
and at your will, you comb the black strands that hung from holes on your head.
silky, much like the sheets slept on.
resting on your shoulders, complimenting the vacancy in your blue eyes.
their melting, resolving their uncensored stares.

and your skin begins to fall off of your bones
floating above your rotted head,
fallen to the ground.

“When should we trust our senses to give us truth?”- Theory of knowledge Class

I am a blind man

I hold onto stories told to me, 

Pictures painted by the paralyzed,

pictures of what it’s like out there.

They make their way into my head

And invite me to watch their show.

These hands paint a riot of chaos.

A confusing mess of here and there. 

I cant trust myself with anything other than to feel.

As if I’m hanging on a string,

And I swing, and I sway 

Kicking my legs, 

And waving my hands.

In tune with the music played. 

I trust myself to feel the thread with careful hands.

And I’ll be pushed to and fro with your pity and advice.

While I sway to the music played by the deaf, 

I fall like a small girl from a balance beam.

And the mute scream through megaphones, 

They must be the voice of god.

It was in a foreign theater where I learned that I was as helpless as a broken clock.

Prisoned inside the holding sell of an antique store. 

And the day had finally come,

I thought the day would never come

And I threw away this useless painting the frozen hands had painted,

Because to me it is just as useful as beauty carved out of plastic. 

In the shape of a woman, movement so crass. 

What I believed to be true was that those with the driest skin, 

Were the ones who lived in seas of cream. 

I believed the that those with the prettiest eyes, 

Were the ones who were buried under the influence. 

The ones with the softest voices, were those who did the most singing. 

The mute story tellers believe that silence isn’t for the satisfaction of not being heard.

But to listen 

And take in what they believe to be true.

They believe that those with the longest necks, swallow most of their words before they plummet off of their tongues. 

And the paralyzed painters know that the blind see their new colors mixed.

They understand the mystic aura which accompanied the prayer room a few doors down from their hospital bed. 

And they believed those with the strongest arms were the ones who were afraid to pick up feathers.

That those with the most influential walk, were the ones who hated their bodies.

I am blind, I believe what I know is true to me.

They are paralyzed, mute and deaf. They believe what they know is true to them.

We all believe what to us, will never be false. 

all i needed

i've been here for awhile,  but my mind is just arriving.
i'll make your jaw drop and your eyes grow wide with confusion. 


you'll scratch your head trying to comprehend
and with a naked body i'll scream through my microphone.


the audience with their pre-conceived notions will record my words.
and i will just say, 


all i needed was for you to listen to me. 

sea glass

much like broken glass found by the soles of your feet on beaches long and silent,
i am worn.
i have been tossed and turned
tumbled through waves of lust,
thrown into the depths of incertitude.
i have been picked up by interested hands.
talked about, turned over and examined.
thrown feet behind them,
i wasn't worthy enough for the crystal vase sitting on top of their white pottery barn table.

i much rather calling the sand my home.
i can bury myself beneath every fragment, hide from interested hands,
and find peace next to critters with little legs and eyes wide.

so far from you,
but so close to everything you wanted me to be.