Werd to yer mothah.

A belated Mum's day poem......

Mothers are often compared to flowers in the spring.
But when I think of Mothers I think of very different things.
Mothers are often compared to seargants that organize the troops.
But when I think of Mothers I think of Warhol's "Cans of Soup"

Each 'Mother' is so different, yet their traits are all the same.
Like art, they go unrecognized, but all deserve their "fifteen minutes of fame."
Each Mother is placed so perfectly by the artist's gentle hand.
He cares for them, and tends to them until they understand---

Their purpose to the world is to make others feel and think.
To give, to love, to nourish, by the soup that others drink.
Yet linger there, dear soup cans, and let me feast upon your light.
Your simplicity is complicated, you know not your will nor right.

Your fruits are essential, you are given the final touch.
You have met the artist's vision, you are released without your crutch.
Now go, dear soup cans, and show the world--you've given it your all.
Now rise to your potential, as a creation of Andy Warhol.


The ending was lame. I know. Rats Finnigan! I'm no good at ending poems.

The end.
I guess.
Goodbye.

SOTD.


SO AMAZING.

xo-Lexi