I Wrote This For You

I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND SOMETHING. I WROTE THIS FOR YOU. I WROTE THIS FOR YOU AND ONLY YOU. EVERYONE ELSE WHO READS IT, DOESN’T GET IT. THEY MAY THINK THEY GET IT, BUT THEY DON’T. THIS IS THE SIGN YOU’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR. YOU WERE MEANT TO READ THESE WORDS.

t-w-o-am:

I Wrote This For You: Just The Words

It’s fine.


Maybe you can make it ironic.

Something that feels like a girl in a short skirt at a party.

Offending her sensibilities with her own humour.

Daring you to love her and playing never-to-get.

Pretend there’s a joke that only her and the people who like the poem know.

Wink.


Maybe you can make it angry.

And tell a story of how how strong your mother was.

She raised you all on her own.

Or how drunk your father was.

Act like you were born on railroad tracks.

Maybe your father was a train.

Get someone to play an 808 in the background.


Maybe you can put it in the middle of the road.

Pontificate a little.

Become a vanilla paste of words.

Don’t say anything really.

Wonder about the nature of a pen.

Be clever.


Maybe you can make it impenetrable.

Be as vague as possible.

Slam your fist into a grapefruit and make a kind of growling noise.

Roll your eyes as soon as someone asks you what it means.

Snap your fingers to show you don’t understand.

Wear a beret.


Maybe you can make it a history lesson.

Talk about the plants and leaves that grew around you.

Tell me something about a smell you remember from a kitchen.

Shock me with some kind brutality either inflicted or received or witnessed.

Write one of the words in a language I don’t understand.

Put it in italics.


Maybe you can make it real sensitive.

Write words that kiss the skin.

Make them sound like the space between two drum beats.

Talk about what it feels like to breathe.

Or something.

Who cares.

Because poetry is the only art form that people naturally expect to be,

shit.

So it’s ok to write shit poetry.


It’s fine.

—Iain S. Thomas, 'Write a Shit Poem' (via soracities)

grahamchilton:

alb1018:

Words from I Wrote This For You by pleasefindthis.
Picture taken by me in Paris, 2012. :)

alb1018:

Words from I Wrote This For You by pleasefindthis.

Picture taken by me in Paris, 2012. :)

The City That Sleeps Where They Fell

I know you move your fingers when you sleep because I have felt them move and I know I must do the same. 

And I must wonder how many times we have unconsciously, in dreams or nightmares, reached for each other’s hands and never even known. 

The Leaves As Ashes

I used to think that when you got old, you envied the young. But now I see that you only ever envy yourself and who you used to be. You only ever look at young people and wonder how you survived all that.