Mother's Day poetry 🎉 moms rule, dads lose (draft?)

Title

[Crappy title that conveys less meaning than everything else because it's self-deprecating]

Thank you for pumping up my tire

Your nice.

Your voice is nice.

You're getting older, less graceful

But we adore you—I adore you.

Your like grandpa, the best in the biz

You're a wiz. That's from the Tom and

Jerry movie.

Well, thank you. I don't want to set

an elaborate trap.

No logorrhea.

I wouldn't like to yodel no songs with you.

Nor would I say 'thank you for [whatever you've done]

Because, firstly, I'd have to do that too many times, and

Secondly, it really just takes away from your actions.

But thank you.

Do you want your poem now?

Here's your poem now.

No prosody flowing through me

But I tap my pencil down down, on the paper ground-ound

My thoughts aren't in the right round, though round may not be right round

Nor the right right, not in the rightly right-hand way, that's what I'd like a say.

May not be level, maybe dishevel', but please do sanction me— pray, don't sanction me —

To stay for sanctuary— 'Sanctuary!'

No Poe flows through me

But my pen— on the cill —I'm bound to bound, can't wait to collect my recollections

And have them bound, have this on the paper, have you swoon, even when we turn to vapour

I want to be meaningful

I want the wont to be meaningful

Sorry if I won't be 'meaningful'

But I want to be meaningful

I know you're a joker, and all the things betwixt

I know sometimes you're angry, yet I won't ask you for a Twix

I'm sorry 'bout sour sorrow we sometimes extrude, we don't want to exclude what you exude— not to say your salty tears are disgusting discharge —

Sorry when we charge, in this grand apologue, you with renege of policy

I know it's part of the policy, our young little wisdom is no wisdom to be.

No poetry knows me, no poetry I know

But my utensil still scratches at the parchment, almost like an utmost refreshment, because I love and I love it for you, I love it for me

I just want you to know the reality, the actuality.

Thanks for your cognizance, it's nice.

That my sutra may be known, that my litany worth litas is comprehended.

Rendered useful in you archives.

Sorry for being so impercise

The essence of verselets, I breath it in, delivered from my lungs to my bobbing heart, the blood travels through my veins and—

The lines flow through me

Even in the moment of my pencil not cutting through the sheets, my body soars as my body beats, and I'm—

Sorry, this poem doesn't seem to be about you, but the theme of the poem isn't about you, it can't be about you, we both know the only reason your connected to this poem is because you said I could.

[Reinsertion of title because repetition is a good tool to convey meaning]