I do not write for you.

No.

In an era where new and better articles are made every single day, I reminded myself.

In the land of the internet where the outrageous and domineering are held in high reverence, I forced myself to remember.

My first love was not for others.

And like many dawns, the love began before the loss of innocence.

Oh, innocence.

In the days before I could even spell.

How does writing start in one's life when one can not even spell? (One may ask.)

I'll tell you how.

Writing does not start with a pen on paper, or fingers on keys.

Writing begins when your mind yells to be heard.

I was eight when this affair took place.

When I tugged on Mommy's shirt and asked her to write down my stories on a new, white piece of paper that Daddy had just given me.

(Even now, a new, clean paper can do a strange, strange thing to me.)

This wasn't a phrase.

Furthermore, my Mommy dearest knew it.

She told my older siblings to help me with my “creative time.”

I would draw pictures so my brother could have a better grasp on what I wanted my story to be written like.

Yes, I remember the excitement of finding out I could twist words together to create new and wonderful words.

Oh, innocence.

And oh, the loss of innocence.

I grew.

With that growth, I learned, well, I learned I couldn't learn as fast or as well as the other kids learned.

(Dyslexia)

Spelling tests on Friday afternoon in Mr. Ham's homeroom were now a dread.

As, when you can only remember six out of the twelve vocab words, it would be for you as well.

I also grew to learn, that reading out loud was a tough game to win.

I dreaded when the others would laugh when Mrs. Woodmen would call on me to read aloud.

So I remember.

How could one forget the great pleasure brought on by telling your ideas?

Perhaps by the grief of great pain.

For a little heart, you are either good at something, or that certain something is not good for you.

So in the quietness of my own bedroom, away from all the voices, I read many books.

I write many stories.

For my mind begged to be heard, and I listened.

When I would try to write for the others

-the parents, the friends, the teachers-

I kept on trying and failing to sound elaborate and sophisticated.

Then I remembered as well, poetry doesn't need to be explained, only understood.

Like this article.

I don't care if no lovely eyes in the entire universe ever looks upon these words!

I do not write for you or you or you.

For parents or friends or teachers.

I write for the simple pleasure of giving my mind some time and space to speak as boldly and brokenly as it longs for.

I may not be very good at it.

I do not write merely to be heard, I write to craft my feelings and experiences into sequences that speak for me.

In the presence of only myself, with only my mind to explore, I invent new adventures to live out my thoughts with dynamic characters.

In the presence of strong and negative emotions, I string different syllables together to begin to show pain.

If I did all this for you, to maybe laugh at me, or give me a half mark, I would not do it all.

For love is to do an action, even if that action returns completely void.

I write for the love of it.

For my mind begs to be heard.

Truly, I do not write for you.