Amma

I write,

Around a handful poems 

On a day. 

Which bothers a few

And on the other hand, 

Relieves the others.

They say that its peaceful

And sometimes even shed tears,

After listening to my voice, 

Reciting the poem like 

I'm reading it to the one,

I wrote it for.

I don't understand why,

People either criticise them,

All the time

Or dont utter a word,

When I need it.

My mother

Like no other,

Said, "Kanna, that line, 

That line from the seventh stanza 

Is not from this poem, I feel" 

And she added, 

"I dont know much about poetry, 

Of what you write and feel, 

But I can say that 

You really are bothered" 

At that moment, 

I almost forgot about the poem,

Or its rhyme scheme,

Or any of it. 

And asked her,

"Ma, shall I change it? 

Maybe it doesnt fit in"

She said, "Don't.

You weren't born to fit in, 

Rather stand out" 

She knew the words,

Better than me.

Like she and I

Were the sky and the land.

She had the words 

And I had the theme.

She was the lyric 

And I was the tune.

For the very first time,

She was surprised to read 

Letters put together, words, 

Written by me.

She didn't say anything,

But, just stared at me 

For a while,

Time enough to think

Of what I mean.

Everytime, I write a new one, 

I stumble and fall into 

A trap of doubt 

And criticism.

But then, 

She comes up,

Everytime with the perfect words 

To bring me out of the dark,

To show me the ray of light.

Sometimes, 

I tend to forget 

That she was still standing

Behind me in the dark,

Facing what was mine 

And not hers.

And my mother always said,

"You are mine too."

I'll be in places where I won't be.

When you read my poem,

Yet again,

At the dining table 

As you run your fingers

On my old book,

That you've been looking at 

For hours when I'm not around.

Amma, 

I wrote this one today,

Just for you.

And I'll keep it 

Where it will hide.

Until you'll search for me 

When I'm far away,

Writing another for you.