I was nine when I met with a happy accident. Words came raining out of my eyes that became diseased with a new hobby. Nobody was interested in opening my notebook to read my mind. I didn't care. For the first time in my life, gateways to a mysterious paradise opened. I owned it.

While all the other girls of my age spent all their time dressing their Barbie dolls, I spent my entire childhood in solving the huge jigsaw puzzle of Shakespeare. Life was complete. I went mad in great joy. I was the weirdest girl in my class; the center of jokes. I was bullied but I really didn't care because I was too busy combing my teddy bears of poetry.

One fine day I got published in a magazine. And suddenly my notebook stuffed with poems became visible to all. Everyone was surprised. We celebrated happily. I was glad I finally found a way to make others happy and be accepted into social circles. People started commenting on my poetry. I liked it. I was now known as the poetry girl.

But People have started judging, rating and examining my poems as if it’s a class test. And in no time a mountain full of expectations have piled up encroaching upon my solitary peaceful life like an unwanted guest. They say “oh this is too sad!!! Nobody wants to read this stuff’’ … “Oh come on! Try writing something funny… comedy is in great demand”. My friends complain “Why do you write about God all day? God is boring! Ghosts are far more interesting!”

I try to write fancy presentable poems to entertain the public. They seem to like it. Now I’m compared with all the other poets and asked to write like them. I’m given tips on how to win poetry competitions by people who do not know anything about poetry… Infinite criticisms from people who've never written a single poem ever... I try my best to write “sophisticated social poetry” to please the crowd. But they are never satisfied.

My heart aches… Eyes mourn… My paradise has died! I can’t do this anymore… this is madness…

People of this world listen to me! I do not want to be a photocopy of other poets. I do not want to produce copied versions of Tennyson or Wordsworth poems just to please you. Why are you trying to kill my poetry? Leave me alone! Like it or not,The only person I want to please is God. Jesus loves my poems just the way they are. My poems reflect my rhythm and not somebody else’s feelings… They are the store houses of MY emotions not yours! They are mine!

Poetry is my blood, my heart, my soul, my life, my all… I want to become an original poet.