My mother is a raging optimist

At times it seems rather unrealistic to me

You see I am an enraged realist

A word that eludes her dictionary

Why else would she ask

Why my poetry

Reeks of emotions and realities

Swept into the recesses

Of minds

Frightened by their existence

And their intensity

Well, I say nothing; nothing at all

If I say poetry comes from the heart

She’d be heartbroken

She’d believe mine to be

An eternally aggrieved constitution

If I say poetry speaks only the truth

She’d be perplexed and horrified

She’d believe my lenses to be

Filtered of all joys in life

If I say my poetry portrays stark emotions

She’d likely misconstrue the remark

She’d stare deep into my eyes to find

The glowing wit and the undead spark

So I say nothing; for there is nothing to

One day perhaps she’d see what I do;

A world shrouded in the dark

With streaks of light pouring in

The hunger, the rags, the loan sharks

With generous dollars sneaking in

The tragedies and their tender scars

With hope and healing seeping in

One day she’d see

That my poetry

Isn’t as cynical or resigned;

It is truthful, it is impassioned

It is serene, it is sublime

It talks of the past, the present, the future

It travels through all the good and bad times

It tells you without mercy, by and by exactly

How cruel sometimes the world can be

But it tells you there is hope yet

It tells you not to despair

That there will be pain yes,

But good cheer will reign again

For there will be death of the bygones

If a new lease of life must be spelled

So yeah, it tells you Shakespeare was right

To say that all’s well that ends well

 – Akanksha Gupta (poem only)