Why Optimism is Non-Sense

The sorry, sniffling nostrils cannot appreciate the floral airs.

Sadness masking true beauty, and who is to blame?

Should the scent be stronger, pollen larger, 

senses driven to heightened sensitivity to compensate 

to allow the appreciation of the fragrant midst the stench. 

Should the touch of the rough be ignored for the smooth, 

Or the sight of the pretty deny that of the ugly? 

What sights, dear optimists, should be etched retinally 

when ugliness is my availability? 

I'd rather see the sorrow, and know its presence.
I'd rather guilt than denial.
I'd rather hear the cries, than drown them out.
I'd rather sadness than joy.
I'd rather recognise the inconvenient, 

I'd rather one have awareness of the problem, all the better to fix it.