Romanticism

On a silent, dark night, I was asked,

What kind of guy that you wish to like,

I giggled a little, and put on a smile.

“Very intellectual, moderately political

But no romantic guys, no not at all.”

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“Well I’m sorry to hear that, I can’t fulfill your wish,

For I am romantic, as romantic as I can be.

Flowers and serenades, are all known to me,

I would jump a bridge for a lady so lovely.”

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The guy was sad, I reckon he spouted a frown,

As he had never met a lass, principally profound.

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Romanticism doesn’t pay the bills, honey

Neither does it makes you forever happy,

Also, have you lived so long and seen it all,

You’d see that romanticism is just a clay mask.

It hides the flaws with rose-tinted glasses,

Just feeding the drugs of euphoria to the lasses,

until they can’t see no more, between the diamond and the glasses.

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I’d rather see some real faces,

Real conversation—advices and debates,

and get high over the truth

then over the facade of the temporary gold glass,

for when the truth come out, and the tricks are spent,

what more you have, than your real soul instead?

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