Sleepless nights and wandering soul
Everything is because of this thoughtful question
" what I want to be?"
Eureka! I got the answer
Finally found my passion and profession
Dancing like a crazy girl and become the happiest girl
Thought my peaceful life is back
And I returned to the place where all it start
Back to my sleepless nights with million rants
All I want is a simple answer for the hypothetical question
This time the question is different
It's about the" purpose of my life"
Where the purpose is not about the profession
Where the purpose is not about the destination
It's about the way it heals me
Its about the tranquility and the satisfaction that it gives me
Searching it for days
Not got the answer yet
I know the answer will ignite everything in me
It will change my world topsy turvy
It will show me the real happiness
And hence searching for the answer that provokes the real me

My pillows knew the story
My diary knew my fury
The walls heard my whimpering
The shivering pen in my hand know my feeling
I cried and cried
Until there is no tears
Until there is no energy left in me
Until I didnt hear the whispers of people
I plead myself not to cry
I prayed to god hoping I'd vanish one day
I told myself to be strong
I hate myself for being coward
But when my teacher asked me to fill in the answer for the below question in 100 words
What is mental pain?
I wrote "PAIN IS NOT A STRANGER TO ME"
And rushed out of the classroom with tears in my eyes

Did you hear my screams?
Did you see my eyes welled with tears and my lips turned into fake smile?
Did you know my scars and the battle behind it?
Did you face the humiliations like I faced?
Then why judge me with a single chapter without knowing my whole story
Quit judging me and I dont need your suggestions or your scrutinising stares

One fine evening
When the sun starts to set and sheens like a golden ball of fire
And the canvas of sky painted with tints of orange and red
Like the perfect art piece of picasso
The trees danced happily and the birds chirped sweetly as a perfect masterwork
Seeing those events
the  6 year girl was allured with the beautiful nature
Then she confessed her love for nature
through her poem
She carried the poem in her small delicate  hands and asked her parents to read
They lauded her and kissed her cheeks
14 years later
She still writes now
Not best as Shakespeare and not worst like a toddler
Even when some people bash her and some praise her
The first admirer and critics remain her parents and will always be
Maybe the six year girl is not in love with nature but love with writing