Coco J. Ginger Quotes

Smile. Your eyes sparkle when you do.

Time to get a go on this drop-dead-gorgeous morning.

Tar-heart baby, let me be, let me shine bright, stop making fun of me. Stop bringing up my past un-funs.

You're a mess, I confess, I despise you in the best kind of way.

Maybe she had it wrong all this time and her empty heart could never be filled by his ingenious broken spirit. Maybe this yearning had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her.

No heartbreak has grieved me as much to discover, the calorie content of my peanut butter.

There's nothing worse than writing. There's nothing better than writing. It's like the man you hate to love, love to hate and never really come to terms with any of the feelings.

Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing.

Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic and a gruesome winless battle.

A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth.

Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.

In my story you're the villain. But in my heart, you're still the reigning King.

I'm too tired, too tired hearing your mean-wording, your pretending, your name-calling, sorry, not sorry, words you write, I should forgive because you didn't mean them right? Oh plus I deserved them? Alright.

...but fame didn't suit you, you compromised, a renegade rebel, you gave me your eyes.

She knew she could never love any man the way she loved a blank sheet of paper that only she could fill.

I'll dream up a world where you never existed. A world you could never live in. I'll live there without you.

She wanted to write to him. Tell him she was glad he was back, that he was alive, that he was home and safe. But words to him no longer fit right in her her mouth.Words which belonged in his ownership were no longer hers to give. Silence was the only acceptable state her heart would grant. He would never know what he missed, because she refused to be heard in his presence. All the words he could have had, all the phrases he might have danced with. The smiles which would have been imprinted upon his heart, would never be. And his lips would never be able to reply to the words she could not say.

... so many ticks steadily around the clock. My heart beats ferociously, as if to say it will not digest this leaving. But you are gone. I could never look into your tormenting eyes again. You mock me with each word you choose ... . of the millions of words in the English tongue you could have chosen ... you select the one's that break me down.

You'll never like me, but you'll always love me.

I know you didn't feel them, and when you spoke them they stung you. I know because I know you. I forgive because my heart has not the room to deface you.

Our stations in life, our difference of cultures, the pain-laid men who raised us - forbid us to be us. They have brainwashed us. We feel we should believe the polarity between us.

I feel like a traitor, a phony, a fake. But I am a hypocrite with the best intentions, and I need kissing desperately.

It is in this darkness that I have found all light - somehow become so bright, a shooting star on a stormy night.

Tricks ripped and you tripped, tricked yourself by falling slowly.
I'm the winner in this game,
unable to stoop to your level of shame.
Unwilling to reply to your words of ache.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Hate me because I'm a domestic GODDESS and beautiful.

She is happy, she is bright.

You know, and I know, just how much we defy.

I shutter to think your demon fingers ever held my gentle skin. Your aged, jaded heart ever held me-if even for a moment-inside hers. I shake when I think your name knows mine, your lips have touched mine.
You didn't break my heart, you tortured her. And for what, but the bitter revenge of the one who had destroyed you, long before I even knew you.
I could say you are dead, but you are very living. You live to destroy, as you were once destroyed. You live to kill.

Head high, heart in hell -

You disenchant me.

Love is not of value when this superficial contract must be drawn up, representing the two worlds that enclose us.

I wear my heart on my blog.

Color me....BRILLIANT.

Heart of a queen you'll see me burst at the seams.

I can't talk to you anymore.
I can't talk to you
with words
with thoughts
with silence.
I can't talk to you anymore
(she won't talk to you anymore).

[Happily broken] arms unlocked. Eyes wide open.
Eager. Torn apart. Heart explosive.
Fingers composing [Happily broken].
Come in, come in. I am ready. I am open.
Happy to be open [Happily broken].

My boy of steel. My man of honor. My perfect friend. My timeless soldier.

She stabbed him with her wicked pretty knife, disrupted his simple life.
She's a player, a heartbreaker,
and now she breaks alone.

If I wasn't so phenomenal. I would go back to you.

She's hanging free, at liberty.

When we are in love, we are convinced nobody else will do. But as time goes, others do do, and often do do, much much better.

Our tongues can't compete with the rapid thinking of our brains, our words come out slow and slurred. The pen is our haven. There is a lot of fear buried into that little pen. It holds all of our agony, our torment, our blood and our heaven.

My lips are fierce with passion. My heart spins fiery beats. A rhythm lives within my fingers and dances in my feet.

Bittersweet? No, just bitter, the taste of your tongue.
Words you can't have back, so they linger.

She wanted to write about something other then love. Yet her freethinking pen seemed more adhered to her heart then to her head. A battle she never felt worth fighting.

You own me, because you are me.

You can only use someone for so long before you dry them out. How long does a muse last? When do you let them loose?

I never want to arrive. I love the ride.

Fuck you perfectionism. Without you, I am brilliant.

I want to learn your trickery and feel what it's like to have me wrapped around your finger. I want to lie to everyone because it gets me where I want faster. I want to be like you, because you are blind; and now that I finally see, I don't want to.

You cannot mistake this
You cannot reinvent this moment
You cannot call this love
It is so much more

Rewriting the world one heart at a time.

If I had no imagination, I would hate you. But I don't want to be part of your reality.

This is the power of my heart. This is what I call sihr halal.

No one likes you tar-heart baby, no one likes un-fun-ness.

The white noise in his heart, the sum of all his colors
- the metronome to which he beat
[was she].

Did my courage make you crazy? Cripple you with the unknown?
Did my silence create desire - make you feel things you could not discern?
Is my shinning light exploding? Can your eyes not yet adjust?
Is my forgiveness running through you? Knowing your pain I will not digest?
Is my confidence disrupting the girl you LOVE to HATE the most?

I'm ready, I'm bursting with color
I'm highlighed in the best this world has to offer -

Finally I see that it's never been me, just a blanket that keeps you warm. Easily tossed along
when something flashier or someone prettier comes along. Your heart I held so carefully, I see, this was all just a game ...

He offered her power, money, status ...
a giant prison, all in exchange
for only ... her soul.

It's a finger snapping kind of day.

You break me the hardest,
make me the strongest, and keep me
the softest.

I pretended to be an open book, but I was closed off and conceited.

He's an indulgent sort of man ... ...
With a quick lip and a fierce tongue, the sort of tongue that draws you in with charm and words of praise, awkward silences and desperate worships.

Overexposing my innards to careless hearts and hands is a practice I am prepared to stop performing.

You tear me down just to build me up again. All I can think is: you are a psycho-clown.

Poor Mr. Zum now he was un-fun and had no funs left who wanted to entertain him. What a qerbackle, what an un-fun pickle to be in.

I'm too tired to fight against you anymore, too tired to say you are wrong. Too tired apologizing, keeping me uping all nighting- criming by wasting my precious timing. Straggling against what I once called charming.

Soul mates are muses. The people in your life you despise, disrespect and desire the most.

Some chase after their dream job, while others CREATE their dream job.

Growth in love comes from a place of absence, where the imagination is left to it's own devices and creates you to be much more then reality would ever allow.

I want your most vital organ. I want it to be mine.

I hate you. I hate you like the girl who hates cake because it makes her fat and she can't stop eating it.

I'm tired of wanting to respond but never knowing what face you'll be wearing, not knowing what mean or nice words you'll be saying, so I stay silent knowing I can't take another round of your uncontrolled verbs, your misinterpretations of my world. So many men? Yes, I have so many men, didn't know that this text-fighting, me on the other side crying was exclusive to just us two.

You are my counterfeit mystery. My artificial company. My forged reality. My imaginary friend I can't eradicate.

Sometimes you want to say, "I love you, but…"
Yet the "but" takes away the 'I love you'. In love their are no 'buts' or 'if's' or 'when'. It's just there, and always. No beginning, no end. It's the condition-less state of the heart. Not a feeling that comes and goes at the whim of the emotions. It is there in our heart, a part of our heart…eventually grafting itself into each limb and cell of our bodies. Love changes our brain, the way we move and talk. Love lives in our spirit and graces us with its presence each day, until death.

To say "I love you, but…." is to say, "I did not love you at all".

You're in my blood spreading through my heart - pumping me numb.

The world I held so closely, she played me like a game,
I released and left her laughing to stand on my own two feet.

He's just not that into you if he is a sociopath.

I pull away, you pull me back, you grab my hand and wrap me around. What you did not know is - – my heart is my hand.

He cared less, so they cared more. He said it was beautiful. I knew he was broken.This was his game.

He's a gypsy killer. He has a special gypsy killing knife.

I won't let you have it. I won't give you this moment. I won't let you fill up this valuable organ ... I own it. I won't do it. I can't think, I won't think about it.

My insides turn outward in acknowledgement of your absence. My heart slips out of my chest and down into my gut.

And why is it that time speeds and slows depending on your attendance? I'd like a steady clock, a reliable clock, isolated from the progressive beating of my heart.

When it's just you, just me, no one around to tell us how we should be - I know we could have made it. I know we could have fought it. I know we could have conquered.

... I felt each beat slowing as his breathe fell away from my world. "You're going to be okay" I lied, as blood spilled painting my fingers crimson. He stared blankly gasping for breath. My fingers never worked the same after that day. They became wild, fierce
unruly. And heart? I don't know where heart is; I think he still has her.

If you were green tea, I'd be your tea cup. If you were dark chocolate, I'd be the paper that wraps you up. If you were a train, I'd be your tracks
If you were a brain, I'd be the heart attached.

I write with my spine, create through my heart and defiant mind. Happy or not happy, it's real, it's living like blood, pen and paper. Hearts that wake up racing, wanting. Trading fear in for the hurt, the hard, the challenge, the change, the pain, the stuff that makes you grow bigger, stronger, better. Granting you the crazy, the genius, the ability, the power to change the world.

She has been trying to pull her worth from him for so long. She has been trying to extract her beauty from his skin. She has been dying to be loved by him again ... but he will always leave her empty

I don't want to go viral, I want to set hearts on fire.

I was supposed to act breezy, but my fingertips are shaking, and my heart won't stop its rapid beating.
I'm giving in. I cannot cave.

He was so busy socializing, making sure people approved and liked him, he didn't notice his precious ticks of time slipping away.

He was so popular. But now...I was famous.

So what", she thought.....body half thrown over the glass edge of her sun and glory filled balcony. "So what", a phrase she had habited to repeat steadily after every self-collapsing thought, concerning other humans and their egotistical opinions.

Stop pretending. You wanted to be real right? This hurts, this is what it feels like, this is the growing up, the stoping pretending, the false past tap-dancing. This is the owning. This is the no-i-won't-be-performing, this is growing out of the glamour and back into the tattered shabby mis-constructed hearts shadow. This is me owning. This is me admitting. This is me realing-up, maning-up. growing up, wanting up.

I had hoped to be disliked by most, not by way of rebellion, but by way of excellence, disdain for the habitual, and the common man's inability to grasp this. The act of being scorned? I saw it as a victory, my irreverent boast against this world which could never fully quench me.

Here I sit like a brainless robot writing the uncensored, chaotic, evil thoughts springing about in my temperamental female brain.

I miss your silent stature, your avoided days of disaster, your present state of distress.
I'm cinnamon, cloves and fire, you are the rested cedarwood of desire.