I can’t rhyme much with much,
To do so, would make me a master of such.
Yes, to do so, would mean I could describe each touch
With eloquence and precise elegance.
To do so, would make me a writer.
But of course, I’m not that.
This poem is based off a phone conversation that I had with my mother. She was just all like “What’s up, buttercup,” and I was all like, (I want to be clever, so I’m going to say something crazy) “Not much. I can’t rhyme much with much, to do so would make me a master of such,” and then she was all like, “I see what you did there.”
I’m also very insecure about my writing which gets on my mother’s nerves more than anyone else’s. So really, this is a poem for my mom because she pretty much inspired this entire thing. Thanks mom.