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Friday: The Poem

Praise you, you're cute.
Come to me. It makes me feel good.
Come to me. It makes you feel good.
I am only trying to lift the millstone of Stonehedge brainwaves, problematic.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Ask, and my letters become words, become truths, become me, telling you, sick no longer.
Ask, and my music grows a mouth, grows a face, grows a mind, and with it, a heart.
A man suffers as much as he allows himself to suffer.
I am only trying to accept respondsibility for a response, correct, but undone. Come to me. It makes you feel good.
Come to me. It makes me feel good.
Praise you, you're cute.
I won't go to heaven alone.