A poem to the one I may love

Where does one start with describing himself,
With encapsulating his way, his life?
Do I begin with the books on my shelf,
With loves, hates, do's, don'ts, victories or strife?

Here I will say that I am a man whose
Eyes are always open and his gaze straight.
The sight of my goals I will never lose,
But I'll lose myself in goofy and great.

I'll offer up a sturdy rejoinder
And equal-honor yours in return.
Moreover, I've health in my funny bone,
So if you do, too, we'll tickle in turn.

My brow will raise for any unkind phrase
'Gainst Beethoven or silky Sinatra,
But my tears you'll see in jubilant praise
Of Spencer's Mountain or Austen's Emma.

Not that I am high-brow in all things art,
'Cause I love Ten Things I Hate About You,
And I'll tell bad jokes from evening's start,
So if you laugh not, I'll laugh for us two.

I would say I'm a man who loves to love,
And what man or woman would deny same,
But one should, indeed, love oneself above
To love another 'bove reproaching blame.

If I'm to show, not tell, on this demand,
Then I will give vent to things in my list:
Luxury cars, soft lips, eyes, beached sand,
Rain on tin, red skies, spangled heavens, mist.

And if I am, now, to name woman's way,
Please forgive an outline in brief details:
Eyes bold, lips soft, unshy, mirthful in play,
Hourglassed, believer that good prevails.

I'm no fool to think identical twain,
But my soul insists on a counterpart
Who adores Rand, Dumas, Austen, L.M.,
And that all good endings are good for art.

I will close this verse as singular man,
With the hope that one day a plural be,
My adoring eyes upon self-safe woman,
One-stepped for life and short eternity.