Of what heaven do you talk about
When this is now
I see nothing but hellish pain inside me,
Sweet Emily where for art thou?
When dost Lovecraft describes the torture of the outer
When Plath gets to my head,
Why then Twain kept me here by my chiny chin chin.
Still a heaven where there is Alhgeiri debacles Milton
And Socrates serves a sourdough for Plato.
Then none of this would help at all
Why then make a hell when heaven is here at my hand of my
Flower, where she reminds me everytime she cries
Everytime I see myself through her emotions
That motions nothing but loving every laugh she doth cry.