I set out to write this poem and I had a simple plan.
I'd avoid all things prosaic and I'd do the best I can
To optimize the content and the grammar and the rhyme
And of course I'd tell a story that would echo for all time
I thought about the subject and the role the hero played
But when I penned the verses then I saw the hero fade
I read my lines and wondered if all poets had the same
Misunderstanding with the words and felt a poet's shame
I struggled with my concept and the form the poem took
Yet I doubt that you will ever see this poem in a book
For only I can understand the effort and the time
And a parent's love responsible for each and every line
And so like children poems cause you happiness and pride
Or conversely they cause torment as you quiver deep inside
And yet I do still write them and some I think are fine
But some are just so terrible I wish they weren't mine.