Come whisper your method of writing to me, how you unleash beauty from plain words. I know much about silence but nothing to your extent. Come tell me how you made yourself small – how you perfected the art of being a literal void to avoid those who wrong you. Disappearing.
– You've never fully disappeared from my sight though.
When I was raised to sew my mouth shut, to apologize for saying too much, I let the elders cut my tongue. After a while, I told myself 'no, no more'. I took back what they took. And that's when I met you.
– You did nothing but encourage and let me be who I thought I was supposed to be.
Come whisper why you feel so small, to me, you took up more space than my own sanity. Silence to me is not unfamiliar, I write ugliness whilst being surrounded by it. I am unsilent about many things, like how exploding art into a dull life can save it from fading.
– Why do I get the feeling that when you let too much art seep into your life, you vanish a bit more than you intend to?
I hope you never fully dissipate because you spew art into my dreary life, and as selfish as that may sound, it gives me a chance to maybe stop you from fully ceasing to exist. I hope you continue to release your anger and sadness and happiness through your artistry, even if it pushes you back into the abyss. Because you taught me to not care, you told me to just write.
– I will fill pages with only semi-colons.
You taught me that we should make poetry, make paintings, make music; make art.
Where emptiness lies, I've learned to use art to fill it up.
There isn't a manual for this.
