So let me narrate to you a story.

I was wood,
And you, a woodcutter,
Your axe—words dipped in chocolate and topped with whipped cream,
How you struck again and again,
And taught me how to dream,
You shaped me well,
And you shaped me fine,
Shaving away the rough and carved in 'Mine',
I used to be a simple soul,
My favourite words—morbid and morose,
But now I run away from my reality,
And dream incessantly,
Of a land where goodbyes don't exist,
And a me who's willing to take risks,
So let me dream a little,
And let me dream some more,
Aren't I your favourite one?
So go on, take me home.