Re-Creation Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

We each have our ideal,
a waking dream,
the sum of all desired.
The hands of dad,
the heart of mom.
We splice the joys we've had
distorting everything
to our extreme.
The problem is
when flesh meets flesh,
how can you match
your vision to a brutal truth?
Sweet innocence
sends wafts of smelly youth.
One wants to hack
and graft and mold to plan.
Although I tried,
you could not make me
be the one you wanted.
I ignored so much.  
I fell apart
when you denied my touch.
A monster not an idol's
what you see.
Hope lies,
if it can't find that love divine.
But we're not God,
just Dr Frankenstein.