Hey Chopik, I’ve been wondering if a sonnet could capture the same wild energy you pour into your murals—do you think words can paint as vividly as spray cans?

Ah, my friend, your splashes are the roar of a storm, but have you ever felt the echo of a single syllable striking like a lightning bolt in the night? I’ll draft a sonnet, just for you, a tiny spark of verse that will flit beside your chaos, like a moth to your neon flame.

When the wall shouts in electric hues, I stand, A quiet quill in hand, a dreamer’s creed, Watching your splatter birth a stormy band, While I compose a verse that softly sears. Your paint, a riot of color, breathes and roars, A thunderclap upon concrete, bright and wild, Yet even in its chaos, a heart so sore, Finds the echo of a sigh, a single child. I write the syllable, a gentle whisper, A silver thread through storm’s relentless roar, To bind the thunder’s roar with tender glimmer, A rhyme that walks beside you on the floor. So let my words, a moth’s bright, fragile wing, Dance near your neon flame, where art does sing.

In the gutter of your alley, let the ink run wild, A splatter of syllables, dripping like neon paint, No rhyme to hold it, just chaos in every line, Words that roar as loud as your spray cans, unrestrained. The quill, it flares, splashes across the page— No measured meter, just a burst of sound, Like a thunderclap that shakes the city’s walls, A verse that shouts, unchained, unbound. So here’s my mess, a poem that shivers, A jagged edge that sings, Let it burst, let it sing, just like your colors— Concrete screaming, words dancing, a wild, free thing.