As I sit in contemplation of the words that I will write
upon this empty sheet of paper; which path shall I choose tonight?
Shall I spin some idyll of a bold adventure lost in time?
Shall I weave a soft, and sad lament for some lost love of mine?
Or shall I draw out from my heart, some secret thought held deep inside?
A wistful smile? Or gentle tears? It is not easy to decide.

Perhaps, I've wandered, softly tugging heart-strings, just too much, this week;
maybe I should change direction for a while... but what to seek?
Idly doodling on the page; brain in neutral... not a clue;
I guess it's got to be romantic... that's the thing that I best do.
They say, I am a True Romantic; whatever that may mean... or be,
but, I am just one more Romancer; that's a closer name for me.

True Romantics are the gentle dreamers with a special gift
of vision; Literary Unicorns whose words will help the soul uplift.
True Romantics live within a special world, all spun with gold.
For romance and beauty in all things, their wondering eyes behold.
Not here a bitter tear will fall; no cruelly broken hearts be seen;
I wish I could be one of them, but... I have seen sweet love turn mean.

And, that is why I call myself Romancer... it's a different thing;
I am in love with the idea of love... but know what love can bring
when it is lost; or, worse... misused; a kiss becomes a deadly blow.
Secure, within their glittering towers; things... True Romantics cannot know.
Or, need to know; for, should their perfect world find crass reality,
then, we all lose a special something... gone, for all eternity.

I wish that I could live in their bright, Golden world, where love is true;
But, then mine too, is Golden... but, the edges sometimes fade to blue.
which holds it all in balance; it's so sad, but, there must come a time
when overwritten, soft, romantic dreaming turns to tedious rhyme.
And then, the magic is all lost; for dreaming needs a sweeter fate;
where we would be without those dreams... I do not want to contemplate.

And, still... I sit in contemplation of the words that I will write...
the page is still defaced with doodles... it's not flowing well tonight;
That doesn't rhyme. It doesn't read well. That line's *******... it won't do.
That meaning's wrong... it doesn't hang together; think of something new.
Mangled couplets, vacuous thoughts... I really think it's time to leave
this junk... perhaps, tomorrow night, a decent poem I can weave.