Strokes Of Pen

We make it; we use it, play with it, store it, are possessive about it and will never share it with any other girl.

I pushed the door open, threw myself straight on the big bed, and cried my heart out. There was no need to bang it close or to lock it as no single soul existed to hear my cries. I vented out my anger, frustration and emotions as I looked up to frame hung on wall near my bed. It was a picture of my mom and dad. I looked at my mom with tearful eyes and sorrowful heart and wished that she were with me.