Listening to my heart beat like the tattered wings of a butterfly.
This is why I write.

Listening to his ragged breathing from hours of tears and dark, sickly nights.
This is why I write.

Learning to think for myself.
This is why I write.

Learning that my fingers could form a image with a sentence.
This is why I write.

Living to exhale.
This is why I write.

Ask me over and over again.
The substance of my answer,
The mix of my breeds.
I write so all of the world can hear me.

I may not be as bright as the next crayon in the box,
My words may not inspire every young mind or bring tears to eyes.
They may not be heard like the shot across the world,
But someone has seen,

Someone can relate to why I write.
Someone can relate to the insanity of those dark nights.
Someone understands that to listen,
Then learn,

You live from what you wrote.
Or what someone else spoke.
They spoke out to you.
I write to speak.
I write to breathe life into dreams.