I write for my family,
Those who sneak a look at my writing here and there,
Who have stayed behind me despite whatever I do,
Too much that they are the reason why I cannot fail. 
I write for my teachers who think I’m good at writing;
No, expect me to be good at writing,
Even when writing punches me in the head
And I have to sit down, close my eyes, and breathe.

I write for the little things that happen in life,
The flowers that fall, a particularly delicious apple,
For the things that would not be remembered if not on ink.
I write for those who read,
Those willing to go through the process of my creation
And understand and hang on to the feelings that I pour out. 
Those willing to look down deep into my heart, beyond the fancy door,
And see the salty flood of tears trapped in the house,
For everytime my parents hit me with their words,
For everytime my teachers lash at me with a rope called expectations, 
And for everytime the world is cold to the young Asian girl, standing alone. 

But at the end I find myself grabbing the pen,
Riding the train into the world unknown, 
Because I write for myself,
Because I feel free, because I feel boundless,
Because it feels like I close my eyes on reality and fly into my dreams,
Because this is what I love.