“To you, it was just picking flowers. To them, it was a massacre.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
Archives
“You wake up with a list of all the people you’d rather be. But you’re already on everyone else’s list.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
“Oh shut up. Every time it rains, it stops raining. Every time you hurt, you heal. After darkness, there is always light and you get reminded of this every morning but still you choose to believe that the night will last forever. Nothing lasts forever. Not the good or the bad. So you might as well smile while you’re here.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
The Medicine is the Sickness
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who won’t let me in on the freeway.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to let people in on the freeway.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waking up to 50 assholes pretending to be me.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waking up feeing like an asshole because I yelled at those assholes.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who turn the things I say into insipid greeting card messages.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s turning a bunch of ideas into a laundry list.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s that feeling you get when you scratch something new.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not knowing what’s wrong with someone and all you want to do is make them feel better.
If there’s one thing I hate it’s knowing that my mind naturally gravitates towards the negative and not being able to stop it.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who become your friend, to become your friend’s friend.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being really busy and using that as an excuse to ignore your email.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to acknowledge that my feelings are my own, no one else’s. And, my responsibility.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s forgetting that and taking the way I feel out on the world.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who criticise things, who can’t take criticism.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s going to the same job day-after-day for the same pay.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not having a job.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not you.
It’s me.
“It does not count if you believe in yourself when it’s easy to believe in yourself. It does not count if you believe the world can be a better place when the future looks bright. It does not count if you think you’re going to make it when the finish line is right in front of you. It counts when it’s hard to believe in yourself, when it looks like the world’s going to end and you’ve still got a long way to go. That’s when it counts. That’s when it matters the most.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
“The heart is a muscle like any other and the best exercise you can do for it is called picking yourself up off the floor.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
“All the space without you in it, is empty.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
“Love doesn’t hate back.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
“You can be in love and you can be in a relationship. But they’re not always the same thing.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
“Making love was never about you and me in a bed. We made love whenever we held hands.” ~ Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
The Place Where You Get Off
Photo by Jon Ellis
Outside the station, she stands with her child on the side of the street, taking pictures of cars.
You think she’s insane. Until, one day, you notice that she’s taking pictures of the license plates of the cars her child gets into.
Because you look. But you do not see.
And she walks out the shop with bags full of cat food. You think she’s some crazy cat lady until you find out, she has no cats.
Because you eat. But you do not taste.
It’s been a while since their last album but he assures you, he’s doing just fine these days, white flecks in his nostrils. Then he asks you if he can spend the night on your couch, even though it stinks.
Because you sniff. But you do not smell.
And they say “Just OK” when you ask them how school was. Then you wonder what they’re hiding until you find their diary and the last entry reads “I wish you’d give me some privacy.”
Because you listen. But you do not hear.
And they’ve got a bruise over their eye and you run the tips of your fingers over it and ask them how it happened. You believe them. Until it happens again.
Because you touch. But you do not feel.
And they walk past you everyday, one million stories, each waiting to be told. Waiting for you to ask.
Because you live. But very few, love.
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The above was a poem from the book, I Wrote This For You by Iain Thomas.
