(via jodielouee)
Hey everyone. My names Jesse.
Have you ever been too nice and ended up in a situation that could’ve been avoided if you just would’ve been an ass hole??
literally my entire life
(via jodielouee)
“1. Get more sleep 2. Drink more water 3. Get more exercise 4. Read more 5. Get more organized 6. Clean more often 7. Explore more 8. Relax more 9. Have more patience 10. Be happy”— (via cwote)
(via jodielouee)
“I wanted to take my time writing this, but I am too excited and the memory of you is all too fresh and to be honest? I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if it’s rushed. I don’t care if it’s not perfect. I don’t care if it has a typo. I don’t even care if it’s not poetically pleasing or if it’s even legible. I like the fact that you’re the reason as to why I am still awake and writing this. I know that things between us hasn’t always been perfect and a great deal of it is my fault. I have fallen out of love with you before, I have tried to let you go a handful of times– but no matter how many times we go through the same motions, we always find the right words to say to one another. I know that poetry requires a mask and a tender set of emotions to make us tick, but within just a week, I don’t know how else to say that I miss you. How does the moon say good morning to the sun? When does the sun say goodbye to the stars? I’m at a lost for words, I’m at a sore part of my wits. You have this very familiar look in your eyes, darling, we’ve been here before, haven’t we? Somewhere unrecognizable in this life of ours, but the feeling is deadon– serendipity, won’t you look at me. The birds don’t sing when they see us, they turn into hummingbirds and keep their wings flapping into rhythm with our heartbeats and that’s more than I can ask for. I have not felt this way in such a long time, I did not know that this type of love could still exist. They say that experience and wisdom comes from a broken innocence. Then where exactly does your kindness come from? Why are you so good to me? Even if I’ve hurt you? Even if I didn’t bat an eyelid? Where does your patience come from? I’m such a firm believer in karma that sometimes… I think you’re some sick joke that the universe is whispering into my thoughts as a dream and one day, I’ll wake up and it’ll all be for naught. I don’t believe in things like forever anymore, but when you look me in my eyes I finally understand that you don’t have to promise someone something to make a statement. I don’t believe in future versions of myself and I’ve cried for past versions of myself for quite too long– why do you love the current me? Was it something that I said? Was it something that I did? Was it something that I wrote? That’s the thing about falling for the creative type. A musician will write songs about you. An artist will paint your heart into every rose petal. A poet will etch your flesh and blood into metaphors. I’ve been trying so hard to understand why you’ve been waiting all this time to finally show up. Do the constellations get a say so at being named? I guess not. So maybe you’re the alignment of stars that I can’t escape from, the letters you’ve left by my bedside have all dried up with your loneliness and I can finally greet you with a kiss that doesn’t feel like it’s laced with poison. Do you think true love still exists? Can it? I’ve been thinking about that more and more as of late, is it different from person to person? I used to think that love was when two people had each other’s best interest in mind, but now I see true love for what it really is. Love is giving everything to someone because you truly care about them– and no, you don’t expect a thing back. You see, my love is selfish, but my love is also selfless. I want you all to myself, but I also understand that one day, things won’t always work out and in a way, that makes us extremely vulnerable and open to the discussion of maybe– maybe one day, we won’t be together anymore, maybe one day, you won’t love me anymore, maybe one day, you’ll forget about me and move on with your life. All of these maybes laced inside of a backwards poem, left in your light blue jean’s back right pocket– but you never once wanted to hurt me intentionally. And for that, I’ll always be grateful. You tell me that love is like a painting that is never complete– a starry night under a moonlight sonata, the music that hums from your heart does more than create art where it doesn’t belong. You’ve displaced my emotions inside of my mind, somewhere inside of this confusion and disorganization– you found me. When I say that I’m lost, you don’t ask where, you just know where to look for me. You do this thing where you can sense my subtle motions within a conversation– you know about an incoming thought of mine before I’m even able to formulate it myself. That fact alone is extremely frightening to me. You’ve made yourself a nice and neat desk inside of my chaotic loose-leafed soul, and you’re not going anywhere until you’ve stained every fingertip and wrote on every line. I know it. I know how you are. If you’re an artist, then I’m a color that you created. And if I’m a poet, then you’re a word that I secretly long to stretch out, if a horizon could speak– do you think that a star’s shine is its way of swooning? How may thoughts do we have in a day exactly? 12k to about 60k? I wonder how many of mine belong to you. I know that we’re both falling apart to be in love, but you’re so much more than I know how to love. Where do I even start? You have pointed out that I’ll figure it out. Writers and artists, are they a good pair? Aren’t we from the same tree? Possibly from the same beehive, maybe even from the same droplet of water that melted from snow saved from a December that was far too soft and cruel at the same time– to meet love, but to also have to say farewell to love until next time. Your smile has all of my favorite colors, if a rose wasn’t a flower– it would have mistook your lips to be a neighboring petal, something that I am guilty for. I know that writers don’t let their lovers die easy, but artists aren’t much different. You paint with colors, I paint with words. I write in ink, you write in pictures. A lovely existence, a strange love– I know that the world hasn’t always been kind to you, but why haven’t you been anything other than sweet and gentle with me? I’m beginning to think that you’re incapable of such emotions toward me. That has to be it. You are infallible in your declaration of wanting to love. And that is just another reason that I can’t explain about you, but I’d love to try.”
– The Creative Type
love being trusted with “you cant tell anyone this” conversations and nodding a lot and forgetting everything they told me like god intended and going down as a trustworthy individual while doing literally zero work of ill or good
(via jodielouee)
““I think it’s very healthy to spend time alone. You need to know how to be alone and not be defined by another person.””— Oscar Wilde
(via goodreadss)
(via sincerelynotyoursrasco)
“And if the world must go on, if blood must kiss the concrete, let the first time be an act of love.”
(via jodielouee)
Locked in a room, naked, with people who speak another language. And everyone wants to touch you. This is the life of a dog.
“You will never be able to experience everything. So, please, do poetical justice to your soul and simply experience yourself.”— Albert Camus, Notebooks
(via books-n-quotes)
(Source: booksnquotes.com)
“It’s 2am, it’s getting bad again, I can tell. I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, trying not to make a sound as I cry. Thinking of all the ways I can end it all, thinking of all the reason I hate myself. while you’re sleeping peacefully because I told you I was fine and I know shouldn’t lie to you but it’s hard to open up after being shut down multiple times before. I’m broken, I’m emotionally destroyed and there is nothing I can do about it, so I just let myself fall apart. You don’t know what I deal with on daily basis, hell you probably never will. You only know me as the bubbly, outgoing, happy girl but that’s not even close to who I am. I will never forgot of the first night of many when I was in such pain that I grabbed a razor and glided it across my smooth skin, just so I could feel the pain I deserved. I’ll never forget the first of many times where I shoved my finger down my throat to make myself skinnier. I’ll never forget the nights where I cried myself to sleep with no one around to tell me it’s going to be okay. You need to understand that whenever you ask if I’m sad or if I’m okay I’ll never give you a true reply. It’s not because I don’t want to tell you, I want nothing else than to be able to tell you what’s hurting me. However, I love you to much to burden you with my pain.”— p.s.w // excerpt from a book i’ll never write #273
do you ever feel yourself slowly losing your current hyperfixation but you’re not particularly interested in anything else rn so you have nothing to fill that void and ur just bored and ready for death
This is uncomfortably accurate
i feel so called out rn
(via manda)
“you had no childhood if you didn’t watch that movie!” I start to feel it. my memory is fading. I have forgotten the day I learned to ride a bike. I forget my first day of kindergarden. It has happened. I had no childhood
(Source: tommyholland, via nosebleed-kid)