There is a Petrach and a Bukowski in my head.
One sees the world with rose colors in their eyes
The other degrades all my experiences into worthless trash.
One paints me in as a Mona Lisa of beauty and femininity
The other calls me an insatiable, neurotic whore.
One tells me to fall in love whenever possible
The other reminds me not to be so ignorant.
One wants dinner and flowers and chivalry
The other wants Jack Daniels and a night I can’t remember
The Romantic and the Realist cannot live together anymore.
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Where impossibility becomes reality in the paradox of tranquility and tragedy.
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