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.
