Private Language of Compression

Yeah This isn’t performance It’s compression I speak in

clipped equations, not conversational tone, Every phrase a distillation of thoughts never shown,

I don’t vent, I encode it, let the metrics be known, I make art

outta pressure I was meant to atone. I don’t say “I miss you,”

I describe the absence, Chart the negative space where your presence had been,

I don’t ask for attention, I audit the silence, Break it down

into symbols, then silence the panic. I been fluent in nuance,

bilingual in doubt, Translate what I’m feelin’ to a rhythm and bounce, If I sound