Write me a sonnet, point dozens of Cupid’s arrows to my heart if you dare to awaken it. Tune into your inner Shakespeare, fantasize us as Bonnie and Clyde if you care to spend time in it. Recreate the Titanic, recreate it with the ending of The Notebook if you can bear to believe in it. And if that doesn’t work, cast me to sleep like the Romeo you are and let me awake next to your lifeless flesh and dagger as I pierce my soul with it.
Write me a sonnet, let every single one of those fourteen lines bleed with emotion. Leave The Notebook next to my notebook and become the protagonist of my dreams. Think like the wind and attain the kind of power that’ll allow you to ******* away on any given day. Your presence keeps transforming our thoughts into beautiful poetic paintings, Basquiat and Picasso would’ve been proud.
Write me a sonnet, silence every impurity that does awaken my love. Summon the essence of my soul for the taking of your unforsaken hands and make Mona Lisa cry sacred tears of joy. Create simplistic glimpses that only our superior beings can understand, only then can I unleash my undying emotion towards your uncontested universe.
Write me a sonnet, the kind that will make me realise that your heart isn’t filled with any doubt. The day I realised that words could touch you, I wanted to become a poem. The kind of poem that Maya Angelou’s ink always dreamt about. The taste of your smile still lingers on the edges of my lips. I see galaxies in your eyes, it must be in the way I love you like I do. I could’ve settled for less but I don’t want anyone else but you.
Write me a sonnet that speaks to the heart of my mind. Because I always hear your heartbeat when I think about you. Write me a sonnet that intertwines our inner intuitions. A sonnet that makes you believe in shooting stars if you’re into wishing. And finally that captures the very essence of the unknown soul that’s unspoken of. Because it’s within your golden silence that I hear the loudest cry.
I am often attracted to things unhinged. Not necessarily (traditionally) romantic, more akin to an unwillingness to ask permission, one who might say It was never your permission to begin with and not be angry or upset about having to say it. Few are so willing to evaluate situations without the overwhelming cloud of emotion. Judgment fully withheld, kind banter catching wind. A needed immediacy.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was aware of the past. He pretended to not care if you did not like his paintings. Part of him was upset some people did not understand. Basquiat strangled history down to basics: music, culture, society (not the same thing), generations of family after family. His point was not for you to obtain this. This was his conscience—tangible. Brain processing. Synthesizing. To him it was so simple. I refuse the word primal because it is misguided, it does not factor purity, clarity. Sugar Ray Robinson told Basquiat to stop painting the background. Tuxedo told Basquiat what words to place and where.
So much of my art is stripped and lucid and enacted with only me in mind.