I Have to

Listen.

Look.

Now, determine your determinations of me.

Who I am is because of who I refuse to be.

Mock, laugh, scorn.

Please.

Dark room with pen in hand, sometimes over a beat.

My heart doesn't make enough sound for me to even know I'm in existence.

My mind does the talking while my pen obeys its commands.

Ryhme and reason. Ha. That's a thing of my past.

No cutesy, no structure.

Just my pain on paper via ink pens and graphite pencils.

Why do I write?

... because I have to.