Love is merely an idea,
That comprises so many things.
Items that could be tools so often displease,
Though they might create the beauty imagined.
It’s strange that I might be called a pessimist,
When I try to be an optimist –
I see all the deposites, film, dirt, and rust
That would have to be cleaned up, first.
But I’m trying to keep it real
And fight sweetly and bitterly for the ideal.