Lost count how many, too many to quantify. Some sad, some joyful, some longing, some twinged with hope. Words, I’m made of, skeleton of sentences, blood of verbs that won’t stop rushing, humming, trying, beating. Sometimes these words stand alone, ring out in color and hue, sometimes they paint themselves on the roof of the reader’s brain, sometimes, I don’t know they do enough. Sometimes I wish for paint, I wish for canvas and brush, sometimes I wish I had the hands that knew how to paint, mix a shade or two, spill it honest and true. Sometimes.
Tyler, your words have a magic that transcends a brush and paint; you have the ability to create a unique image in the mind of everyone who reads your work. In our mind's eye, we can see our own version of what you so skillfully illustrate by spilling your thoughts into a poetic rhythm and meter of your own. What an incredibly beautiful, powerful way to share your art. Thank you for that.
Words are another medium...when a writer wields them like you do, they craft a feeling that would put Van Gogh to shame. Poetry is the first art...carrying rhythm of an inner heartbeat into the outside world...carrying thoughts and feelings into life's melody as spoken word...don't doubt it's beauty as great as other forms...the colors are all there.
💜💙🧡❤️
"...purple, blue, orange, red...these colors of feeling. Give me love, I put my heart in it." -Dermot Kennedy
Art is noble, it’s free of judgment, it helps you be free. “If you hear a voice inside your head that tells you you can’t paint, paint and the voice will be quiet.” Throw paint in a canvas and use your fingers to mix it, just like the quote, be messy. Feel the paint in your hands, the texture, the way the colours mix, how something that was white is now so different. Do it and then use your words to give it meaning. As an artist I encourage you to just play.
You always invite us to try, to just do so this is me inviting you! ❤️
Words flow, they hit you out of nowhere, they whisper, they creep. Yours are light, on the edge of light, dancing on the edge of a razor, beauty and perfection. Thanks again.
I always thought my parents were polar-opposites, until I grew up, fell in love and found, they were completed-opposites: my mother’s chaos didn’t clash against against my father’s course corrections, my father’s depths were her center stage, the void in which to vibrate.
Tyler, your words have a magic that transcends a brush and paint; you have the ability to create a unique image in the mind of everyone who reads your work. In our mind's eye, we can see our own version of what you so skillfully illustrate by spilling your thoughts into a poetic rhythm and meter of your own. What an incredibly beautiful, powerful way to share your art. Thank you for that.
Words are another medium...when a writer wields them like you do, they craft a feeling that would put Van Gogh to shame. Poetry is the first art...carrying rhythm of an inner heartbeat into the outside world...carrying thoughts and feelings into life's melody as spoken word...don't doubt it's beauty as great as other forms...the colors are all there.
💜💙🧡❤️
"...purple, blue, orange, red...these colors of feeling. Give me love, I put my heart in it." -Dermot Kennedy
Art is noble, it’s free of judgment, it helps you be free. “If you hear a voice inside your head that tells you you can’t paint, paint and the voice will be quiet.” Throw paint in a canvas and use your fingers to mix it, just like the quote, be messy. Feel the paint in your hands, the texture, the way the colours mix, how something that was white is now so different. Do it and then use your words to give it meaning. As an artist I encourage you to just play.
You always invite us to try, to just do so this is me inviting you! ❤️
Words flow, they hit you out of nowhere, they whisper, they creep. Yours are light, on the edge of light, dancing on the edge of a razor, beauty and perfection. Thanks again.
I always thought my parents were polar-opposites, until I grew up, fell in love and found, they were completed-opposites: my mother’s chaos didn’t clash against against my father’s course corrections, my father’s depths were her center stage, the void in which to vibrate.