Take what you love and hate and smear it together on paper. Pour it out, with no inhibition or worry of the mess it will leave and relationships it can ruin. Rub and mix it, until words become sentences and sentences into lines worth remembering. Give it form, or let form happen – whichever occurs first – until it looks unrecognizable to you and understandable to others.
Readers will see it as beauty with a message, but only you know the disgusting muddle hidden in plain view.
From the little I know, this is the art of words. It’s creating disorder of subconscious content so honest it shocks your own latent mind, then having the bravery to dig your hands in and make it comprehensible for others to understand, like a pathetic child seeking approval.
I think this is what art is.
I think this is a way of coping with the world I’ve created in my head: the over analyzed version of everyone else’s reality.
I think this is what writing is.
Isn’t it? A self-made mess to clean?
All I know, is that it is for me.