Jocelyn Flores

Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

“Just a thought away from being lost in her sway.”

— Be careful what you wish for.

4AM THOUGHTS

feeling very inspired right now. I woke up at 3am randomly but i remembered that i hadn’t listened to Meek Mill’s new album yet so i got out of bed (while trying not to wake my daughter) and went to the bathroom to listen. and i listened to every word all the way thru and it left me inspired writing this at 4am. I also read this article about things i should avoid as an aspiring artist and i realized i do 3 out of the 5 things. Holding my work hostage, Not Being social enough, and finishing my Art halfway and then abandoning it. I gotta work on these things.

The whole “being social” thing was never my thing but lately i have been making attempts to do so, sometimes i’m left disappointed and others i am left surprised! It’s cool when you meet another creative who can relate to most of the things you go thru. As Far as finishing my Art goes.. i tend to not finish my art when someone doesn’t feel the same way about it as i do. I tell myself “ok well this isn’t worth anymore of my time, thank you.. next” (lol i like that song) And then i start on something new and repeat the same thing. Fun fact tho… i remember playing “Don’t” for like 5 people before it came out and nobody liked it how i liked it. So i deleted it from soundcloud. lol Shit as a matter of fact i remember when i played my first album Trapsoul to Fader and a couple of other Blogs or whatever and it was straight crickets in the room. 🦗🦗🦗i was like wow this shit is trash lol

Anyway, i know this is getting kinda lengthy but i say all of that to say this… believe in your “trash”.

Ok 4am Thoughts end now, gotta take Harley to school in a few hours. 💤💤💤

Source.

“you’ve relied on time to heal your wounds, but time alone isn’t enough. i hope you learn to hold yourself accountable by practicing what is right for you even if it feels uncomfortable or unfamiliar. i hope you adopt a habit of consistency when it comes to how you treat yourself.”

— iambrillyant

Poetry is when your heart speaks,

Resonates through,

My heart listens,

Spills out words in response,

Your heart smiles.

- DG

Me: *sleeps in*

Scorpio: why are you late?

Me: slept in

*50 years later*

Scorpio: so are you ready to tell my why you were really late on May 16th 2016 at 9:47pm

Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again.

Bernhard Schlink (via quotemadness)

#Quoteoftheday

I listened to Bukowski this morning, and I realized my writing is not raw enough, angry enough, drunk enough; I even drink red wine instead of cheap beer. I detest cigarettes, never served in war, or roamed the streets looking to settle on the bed of some dude’s crude floor. I’m too feminine, too much an inherent believer in the quality of people. My heart is adversely set against his heretical ways. I’ve never been stabbed in the back by love, or if I have, I pulled the prick out years ago, and time and forgiveness have sealed the scar over. I might have even forgotten where the wounds are buried. I never carved mistakes out of people, stole time in self destruction, stared into the holes of another’s deceit. I’m not modern enough to be a true angst-filled American poet. I don’t possess the tongue to squeeze lemon over my open lesions letting them ooze into a glass I pour out as charity for the masses. Come, let me sacrifice hopelessness for the voyeurs. No, I only know to write of the way his lips taste the soft worlds within my seascape, the slant of patchwork light filtering through the hallway window, jewel-toned shells that satiate my harlequin heart. I only know of simple subjects; I’ve somehow been denied the stench or overlooked the cracked places harboring broken bottles and blood-stained lips. Does that make me any less a poet, I wonder.

upon reading Bukowski//

Rhapsodyinblue45

4.8.18

By ryancphoto