Scared to look love hatefully in the face,
shamed by selfish blemishes reflected,
idealism shallows your emotion,
since the true depth of feeling’s rejected.
But the tides of your being don’t change pace
because you think that they need correction,
and, down at its depths, no emotion’s base,
since surface alone can’t hold perfection.
Plunge through the levels, unafraid to find
your unalterable alterations,
which, of course, exist only in the mind --
those menial mental masturbations
that tell you hate can’t undercurrent love,
or selfishness never rises above.
 
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