I don’t beg her to believe
Because I am begging God
She does not rebuke me.
I knew her when I was still a newbie, thanks to her avid reading and indefatigable commenting on virtually everything posted here on NS. Sometimes her reading and commenting has left me in doubt, does she really read all those stories/articles/poems or does she just skim through.
Something tells me she does. She can’t give such honest opinion, crystal clear critique and play Editor-in-Chief (as some NSians called her, names withheld for security reasons) by scanning through what she reads.
It is due to that I found myself smitten (literally), losing good hours’ sleep because of this Bubbllinna.
I have a deadly (school boy) crush on Bubbllinna, reason enough to awaken the dead buried teenage fantasies and dreams.
She’s a star, she feeds on my weakness
I’m her night time, her beauty scattered in darkness
I fall in love with the night, watching my star.
She stands out from others through a distinctive and appealing style (of her writing, literary credulity and philosophies reduced to babble of ideologies by man).
At the same time she’s vague, and ethereal
Keeping her distance, letting us imagine more than is real.
Her dreamlike essence she embellishes, courtesy of cyberspace, works on my (if not our) consciousness, not even aware of how much we want to be like her (I mean like the star), reading everything that comes our way avidly, giving honest critique and opinion of it (like a know-it-all) and be part of the editorial board she is the editor-in-chief.
This Bubbllinna, who Elove Poetry called ‘A Gem on NS’, projects a glittering but elusive presence, just like the stars spread on the quilt of black dust above every night (that Romeos and Juliets fall in love with, and Casanovas aggrandise strategies of launching insidious attacks on their conquests).
Oh my star, a million years away
My addiction, glittering illusion
Dreams of a million years closer.
DISCLAIMER: I warn you that if you allow me to take (his/her) place in your heart, no power on earth can tear me away from it.
Sister Mathilde to Casanova
For the Record: I’m no Casanova
My head is intact. EP has let me live for another day (to die tomorrow). Instead of the head in the silver platter is my last supper.