The forge waits for the first strike, just like a verse waits for its first word. When I raise the hammer, I feel the metal's stubborn heart, and I press until it yields, a rhythm that never lets me stop. It’s the same with a song: I lay down a line, feel how it fits, and I keep hammering it in, tightening the beat, cutting out the useless. If the metal cracks, I take it apart, smooth it, and try again—words don’t change, they just get clearer. So keep that rhythm, let the iron and the rhyme both listen to the steady pulse of the hammer.