Romantic

I can still remember the first time I was called a romantic.
The trees were flowering
Despite the snow round its roots
And I felt the whole world click.
Like I’d been looking for a name
For my rose colored glasses I’d worn all my life.
And I am.
I am a romantic
I imagine the best possible world. 

The ideal of the ideal.
Fresh flowers in vases
Sweet smiling faces
and contentment for the world round.
And she who gave me that name
Spat it like a dirty word.
As if through the rose colored glasses
I couldn't see pain.
And it was then that I realized why I’m a romantic.
Because I’d seen enough of the shit to be happy or kill myself.
I made it out alive.
But only by seeing through my rose colored glasses and knowing...
KNOWING
Things would hit the fan.
But in knowing it would hit the fan
I also knew I’d be alright.