Sickly sweet; so nauseatingly gross:
Overly sappy idealism.
I call it saccharine, Splenda, Sucralose,
Though some call it "sentimentalism".
What's in a name? That which we call naive?
Rose-colored glasses by any other name would still be fake sweet.
I believe there is no dignity in dogmatism,
Nor valor in virginity; call me a believer in realism,
Or call me a cynic--whichever you prefer.
Does childlike innocent crust and sugar over, like a dream deferred?
The bitterness and sharpness of life's lemons,
Can't be sweetened by a sugarcoating.
And aspartame and nostalgia
Can't help you swallow your pride.