“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.