#yknow I try to preach that all bodies are beautiful but

[fregget-frou]

I had a good day!!!!!!

[forthepurposeofpoetry]

This poem is called Forcing poetry down your throat like my mom used to force grape flavoured spoonfuls of medicine down miNe

The first step is always anger:

Of all the things to hate,

You chose to hate my art.

My poems.

You had to choose the only way i know how to express love.

Cause that's what I was doing, Yknow?

Telling you I loved you.

Every second of everyday I spent trying to come up with a creative way to tell you I loved you.

Every word you spat on and buried in the dirt was my prayer that you would grow up happy and healthy and confident and strong.

Robin Williams tells me through a gif on tumblr that words and ideas CAN change the world and my 16 year old self, lying naked like a baby in my bedroom cries to the ceiling yes! Yes! YES!

So with strong arms I lug my typewriter down from the top shelf in my closet, turn my manic pixie dream girl lights on, dust off the keys, and I write.

Dear god, how I write.

I write like it’s going out of style.

I write like the soldiers are coming hungry for book blood.

I write like my life depends on it.

I recycle,

Repurpose,

Reuse,

The same old metaphors,

Same out of style one liners.

I take the same love poem people have been writing since the dark ages,

And I give it a new skin !

Sign your name at the top

Sign mine at the bottom, and call it original content,

Call myself a fucking prodigy.

I slip it in to your pocket.

Imagine you unfolding it with dirty sandpaper hands, imagine you crying at the beauty and power of our love.

You didn’t have to love it.

Didn’t even have to read it.

They were never good poems.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve ever written a good poem in my life.

It was never about the words.

I THOUGHT that if I took fingers to keys and pen to paper

and thought to voice

ENOUGH TIME

to preach good fortune for you,

eventually it would come.

It was never about the words.

It was always about my starry eyed, stupid, naive, glowing teenage body that had more raw belief in the power of poetry than anyone else in the entire world.

It was always about the fact that she chose to streamline that belief in to a boy that didn’t want it.

Never needed it.

You didn’t hate my art.

I know you said you did but you didn’t and you don’t.

You just never needed it.

You are an asteroid that has been shooting through space for thousands of years.

You are a wave right before it breaks,

Crashes,

Rises up again.

Rises up again.

You are the sun. The sun, who has never needed anything from anyone.

And how silly,

And how beautiful,

It was of me,

To think I could help the sun.

To think I could coax the wave back on to the beach if I just talked for long enough.

To think I could make a 50 thousands ton asteroid sit still, and listen to what I had to say.

You were a black hole for everything I was capable of giving.

I never stopped trying.

Never gave up.

I would’ve given you the shirt off my back,

My heart of out my chest,

If you’d have asked.

That’s the thing.

You never asked.