Music is my one opportunity to let out how I'm feeling when I'm

The words of Brent Faiyaz — “Music is my one opportunity to let out how I’m feeling when I’m not talking to a chick or my mom, you know what I mean? It’s just venting.” — reveal the timeless purpose of art: to give voice to what the heart cannot speak aloud. Beneath his casual tone lies a truth as old as civilization — that creation, whether in song or stone, is humanity’s way of surviving its own emotions. Music, for Brent, is not a performance but a confession — a sacred act of release when the soul can no longer carry its burden in silence.

To vent is to cleanse. In the language of the ancients, it is to exhale what poisons the spirit so that one may breathe again. Brent’s music, like that of the poets before him, becomes a vessel through which unspoken thoughts are purified by rhythm and melody. His words remind us that not all battles are fought with weapons; many are fought within the heart, and the artist’s song is his only shield. In the moments when he cannot speak to his mother — the voice of nurture — or to love — the voice of intimacy — he speaks to the infinite, through sound.

This sacred act of expression is as ancient as the first drum struck beside a fire. The warrior returning from war, unable to describe what he saw, sang. The widow who lost her husband, unable to explain her grief, wailed a song that became prayer. So too does Brent’s music stand in that same lineage — the lineage of those who transform pain into beauty. His art is not just melody; it is medicine. Through it, he releases what words cannot contain, and in doing so, he invites others to do the same.

History gives us many mirrors of this truth. Consider Beethoven, who, though deaf, continued to compose symphonies that thundered with divine emotion. Unable to hear with his ears, he listened with his soul. His music was his venting — his confrontation with despair. He once wrote, “I will seize Fate by the throat; it shall not wholly overcome me.” So too does Brent, in his own generation, seize his emotions not to destroy them, but to shape them into rhythm and sound, and by doing so, transforms sorrow into strength.

Yet Brent’s words also speak of isolation — the solitude that often lives inside the artist’s heart. He mentions the two people who might have heard his truth — “a chick” and “my mom” — and when even their comfort cannot suffice, he turns to his craft. In that moment, music becomes confession, a conversation with himself and with the unseen. It is a sacred mirror through which the artist meets his truest reflection. The ancients would have called this catharsis — the cleansing of the soul through art. It is not simply emotional relief; it is spiritual rebirth.

What makes his words powerful is not the act of venting alone, but the courage it takes to turn vulnerability into creation. To feel deeply is one thing; to express it truthfully is another. Many bury their pain beneath noise, pride, or distraction. But Brent, like the poets of old, gives his turmoil form. He reminds us that the act of creating — whether through music, writing, or any form of art — is an act of survival. Expression is not weakness; it is liberation.

From this, the lesson is clear: when words fail you, create. When your heart grows heavy, let it speak in color, in rhythm, in movement. The one who learns to channel pain becomes indestructible, for no emotion can enslave a soul that knows how to release it. As Brent Faiyaz teaches, to vent through creation is to make peace with one’s humanity — to turn what could destroy you into what defines you.

So let his words echo across generations: Music is my one opportunity to let out how I’m feeling. For each of us, that “music” may be different — a canvas, a prayer, a poem, a walk beneath the stars. But the lesson remains eternal: when your spirit is full, do not drown in silence. Speak to the universe in the language of creation, and in the act of release, you will find your healing.