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.