Monday, November 7, 2011

Green-Eyed Monster

She lived with a perfectionist, who worked her days off from morning to night.  She was a working bee which never failed the queen.  Yet, they were known for the works, works which were done by only one bee.  She nested late as a company, not for the honey.  Who would have known, but herself.  None perceived.

Perfectionists were lauded for their works.  And, their best friends, they would not dumb it.  Thus, they praised, she extolled; however, imperfectionist never did it right.  Her lavish praises irritated others.  In return, she received a shut-up look.       

She did not idolize her works; strength could not find to uphold such burdens.  But, wouldn't you want a high achiever?  The monster warred within her.  Hate not, my dear, hate not.  

Dishonest intentions, she did not, but she just wanted to be happy for the person who deserved the credits.  She wanted to be happy for her.  She deserved the credits.    

Sunday, November 6, 2011

A Faint Blind Date

If you were real, I wished that we met before we went out on a blind date.  She read herself like a book; she knew what she would do.  The date, she would spoil.  There would be no happy endings.  So, let it be without me knowing.  Unconscious.  Period. 

You sound so real to my ears; she found him haunt her dreams.  Though she denied it, she could not escape the fact that he spooked her to life.  

She was no attractive girl, yet she could not accept no unattractive man.  Love does not find its grounds on such superficial reasoning.  No, no; she scribbled a list of words to sum her My Dream Guy.  Such man did not exist, she realized.     

I agree to live old, thus intimidated her not.  But, if you were real, her life would be written with a different story.   

Saturday, November 5, 2011

The Old Book

She flipped through the torn pages, each written with promises.  The old book, which she used to read, was now abandoned, on the shelf, untouched, buried under the dust.  Supposedly the stories made a flashback.  Instead, the stories were dead.  
My soul is dead.  Open this book, and be my author; let my soul springs forth with life.  My life needs no sparkles nor glitters; it needs a story.  You are the author, who wrote this story from once upon a time.  Be that author who ends it the way it was meant to be.  Me and my big mouth shall speak no other stories but yours.

She closed the book, and placed it back.  

She needed a miracle.