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I write. I write a lot. I write about everything my mind dreams up. Off of impulse, off of feeling, off of an initial reaction, anything that moves me, inspires me, challenges me, creates that fire in me – I write. I write when my thoughts choose to manifest my mind as silence breaks and I’m stuck in a trance of solitude. I write in peace. I write for peace. I write in pieces. I write for those whose lips are glued silent. I write when I think no one else can hear me. I write if your beat speaks to me, if lyrically each bar or each verse you took time to create moves me. I write best when I’m surrounded by beings who fuel my growth. I write for the sake of my sanity. I write without the mentality of attaining fame. I write to keep record of my living. I write for my own enjoyment. I write for comfort. I write because I love to. I write for me.

But sometimes I can’t write. I can’t write when I force myself to. I can’t write when you tell me to. I can’t write what you wrote. I can’t write like you. I can’t write when I’m left in an atmosphere haven to blank walls. I can’t write if my mind isn’t open. I can’t write if my words deem superficial. I can’t write if my words are provoked by all the wrong reasons. I can’t write if I feel suffocated. I can’t write if you don’t allow me use my own voice. I can never write for you if you don’t inspire me to.