Cyn
Kansan,
You are tops.
I lick your chops.
They’re so delicious
As art, quite nutritious.
Feeding my pitiful heart,
Inspiring me to work on art.
Increasing my angst, low self-esteem.
I wrestle with my tablet and then dream
We meet, I gaze behind your seamless eye
Into your mind, some secret to spy.
Talent so kaleidoscopic
Such mad skills, what makes you tick?
Fooling Godly preachers;
I’m in the bleachers.
You soar above.
All my love,
I am
Spam.