A Poem About My Mother

I have realized how pointless written words become if they're not for a purpose. Purposelessness makes it hard to relate to those shiny glossy words that could mean something. When it comes to writing poetry, my mind wanders here and there for a topic so relatable, it would make anything a masterpiece.
I had been thinking of a topic and there was a sudden idea; to write about the most precious things in my life. With that coming, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to write a poem about my mother. All about her, in few verses, that would rhyme and make her happy.
"Customs, traditions, and obligations,
My mother keeps them all on her fingertips,
Every day they become harder to grasp,
Yet she doesn't lose her grips.

My mother is unlike others,
She's made of love and sacrifices,
When I think about her aging face,
I just want to kill her crisis.

But it all makes her stronger,
And she keeps going all along,
Without hurting people in the long run,
"Good for all", she would prolong.

My mother, you see, is unlike others,
She doesn't wear the cloak of grief,
What's good is good, what's bad is bad,
She keeps her thoughts simple and brief.

My mother is unlike others,
She knows how to tackle storms,
Since she shaped me into the person I am today,
Against all the usual norms."

My mother is one simple Pakistani woman whose life revolve around her home, family, and simplicity. She didn't go for a fancy degree or career. Instead, she turned into an everyday housewife and maintained everything in her life with uber perfection. Her kids: well. Her house: fab. Her reading list: full of mystery and adventurous books. It's her interest and love for books that I inherited. And I couldn't be more glad about it.
(I made her hold my writing journal for a picture. Mainly because err, it was for her after all)
All of my secrets, mistakes, regrets, and the rest go straight to her. I can tell her anything and everything without being scared for my life. She would simply listen, absorb it all before pointing out whether whatever I did was wrong or right. If I did right, pats on my back. If I did something very stupid, then a good old lecture (that wouldn't go wasted). It seems really important, at this point, to have shared everything with her, so now I don't have the kind of regrets others seem to have. I have an air of contentment around me that stops me from doing things I know she might not appreciate. I owe her a lot of things. Since this poem made her super happy, I can sense all the "daughter of the year" kind of points making their way towards me. Wink.

This poem, besides for my mother, is also for every hustling mother out there, who is not going with the society's flow, who is shaping up their kids into something one of a kind, who is keeping a balance, and who is willing to adopt modern methods for ancient traditions.

Love your mother, bbys. They're really the gems you would be yearning for when you finally figure out how they've brought you up. Or when you become a mum yourself.

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