I lift my pen off the surface of Fed Ex paper, while writing to the rhythm of countless gun shots being fired in the air. It reminds me that I write for the unspoken voices lost between sidewalk cracks, Lives chained upon my back for me to carry. I write for newborn babies cremated into poverty, Rainbows that only shine where the yellow brick road leads to. I write for the wish I could of, should of, would of, maybe or maybe not foundation. For my best friend that got shot at 12 O'clock on the block right before my bare eyes. I live for my community that moves in silence but tends to still creep through the big crowds and invisible shadows. I write for my friends whom choose candy crack besides purchasing a gown and cap, for the bums walking down streets with nothing to eat, half beat. I write for abusive relationships and little girls who mistaken love for lust, ages seventeen or younger. Over protective, brutal affection forced to be slammed into reality before self destruction. My words are written exactly to the broken hearts that society continues to walk on like egg shells and vinegar, Not realizing the broken pieces attached to their expensive Nike shoes. Sew my insecurities and cursive writing beneath your wool coat exactly next to the existence of your feelings. I write for the perfect families with family portraits over their fireplaces as well as foster care children and addicts walking down N ew York boulevard. My Words write me explaining the experience double spaced on one page in Microsoft office publications, Building a life inside ancient pyramids and Eiffel towers. Taste my life inside a pack of skittles and a Arizona tea. I write for every Black hooded sweatshirt, Trayvon Martin. I live for life as life lives within me, Not even the dictionary has enough words to explain Why I Write. This was My Chance, Now it is taken, Next.