My name is Jacqui G. I believe art is the most honest form of recording history we have. As artists, it is our responsibility to respond to the world as we see it, live it and breath it. We're poets. We're artists. We shake shit up. It's in our job description. Check the fine print.


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Apr 22, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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This is where the mountains crumbled
for the first time.
This is where we found a pile of rocks
and pretended we knew something about rebuilding.
Are you still sorry about any of it?
Let’s forget about the candles we left on all night.
Let’s forget about all those clouds we ran from.
Baby, the storm was us the whole time,
and you have to promise to tell me when the
monsters stop showing up here.
I can’t remember the last time I was destroyed,
but I have a feeling it was all in my head.
Maybe these poems were never about how many
people got their hands on my heart,
but whose blood was on my own fingertips.
I don’t know what the war tasted like,
but I remember the graveyard after.
If I survived before, it wasn’t the right way.
If I survived before,
it means I can do it again differently.
Do these pieces of wood everywhere
means someone is building is something or
someone is destroying something?
Maybe the important thing is that it doesn’t matter.
Maybe the important thing is that it is our choice
what to make of it.

— Y.Z, the reminders we never had (via rustyvoices)

(via goldensoul)


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Apr 21, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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A woman-of-color who writes poetry or paints or dances or makes movies knows there is no escape from race or gender when she is writing or painting. She can’t take off her color and sex and leave them at the door or her study or studio. Nor can she leave behind her history. Art is about identity, among other things, and her creativity is political.

— Gloria Anzaldúa, Making Face/Making Soul: Haciendo Caras — Creative and Cultural Perspectives by Women of Color  (via jalwhite)

(via young-man-old-soul)


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Apr 13, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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46,132 notes

(Source: folha-de-maconha, via dgusketchbook)


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Apr 12, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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303,804 notes

For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.

So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your destruction.

This is your birth.

n.t. (via thedapperproject)

(via thedapperproject)


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Apr 5, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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2 notes

sincerelywithlove:

Poetry reading at the Contemporary Art Museum (ft. Mary Jo Bang & Carl Phillips).

sincerelywithlove:

Poetry reading at the Contemporary Art Museum (ft. Mary Jo Bang & Carl Phillips).


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Mar 30, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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782 notes

respect. the years of your creative puberty. however long it may take. you need them to become yourself. you need the maturation of your art to become the artist you dream of.

— nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)

(via nayyirahwaheed)


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Mar 24, 2014
@ 5:02 pm
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65,135 notes

You are a
hurricane of
a girl;

remember
to breathe
every once

and a while,
do not drown
within your
own storm.

— i think i saw you smile once, Emma Bleker (via creatingaquietmind)

(via cursivebones)


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Mar 23, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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4,249 notes

And I cried. For myself. For this woman talkin’ about love. For all the women who have ever stretched their bodies out anticipating civilization and finding ruins.

— Sonia Sanchez (Homegirls and Handgrenades)

(Source: likethebrimofahat, via cursivebones)


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Mar 12, 2014
@ 5:02 pm
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649 notes

Art hurts. Art urges voyages — and it is easier to stay at home.

— Gwendolyn Brooks (via observando)

(via goldensoul)


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Jan 28, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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197,232 notes

riverofbones:

vintage & models ❂

riverofbones:

vintage & models 

(Source: kieferchase, via f-e-l-i-s-c-a-t-u-s)


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Jan 27, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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136,074 notes

i’m not a girl
i’m a storm with skin

— (via chewingdirt)

(Source: sailllboat, via f-e-l-i-s-c-a-t-u-s)


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Jan 26, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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2,006 notes

scientists ran a DNA test on my poetry
and found traces of you
in every single line.
your hair, the two mountain peaks
of your upper lip,
your cheekbones.
God, those fucking cheekbones.
where did you come from?
how did you get all over my hands?
I’m drinking through my verses
trying to write something
that doesn’t sound like
“I didn’t mean to make you a habit”
but it’s all the same, really.
I turn the page upside down
and can still read the words perfectly.
I should take up smoking.
I hear it’s calming and, most likely, fatal.
I’ve written so many poems, and none of them
are even mine.

— Mine | Caitlyn S. (via alonesomes)

fuck, man.

(via racingbackwards)


Link

Jan 25, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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3,467 notes

34 excuses for why we failed at love. »

warsanshire:

1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things.

2. Loving you was like going to war, I never came back the same.

3. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood.

4. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride…

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Jan 24, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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14,552 notes

(via mi--rae)


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Jan 23, 2014
@ 5:01 pm
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817 notes

siemcia:

vertical blog.

siemcia:

vertical blog.

(Source: life1nmotion, via injunio)