The speaker is frustrated with love because it hasn't lived up to what they were promised. They say they're "at war" with it, and the target of that fight is less love itself than the idea of what it "should be." Those expectations came from fairytales, which the speaker calls "well sprung," as if the stories were neatly built to work. The trouble is that those standards never carried over onto "the maps of life." The ideal and the real world simply don't line up.
The second stanza turns to a painting image. The speaker picks up "pretty paint," expecting something beautiful, and ends up with a "gruesome picture." So they sulk, which is a small, almost childlike reaction, and it feels honest. The final line is the real complaint: "no one warned me how messy love will be."
The mood is wounded and a little petulant, but also candid. There's disappointment here, and some humor in the way the speaker admits to pouting.