It is nothing like books
Or the fairy tales.
The face never glows as though moon.
Or the lyrics don’t turn romantic
Her head never finds my shoulder
When she tells a story of her childhood
And the pimple on the chubby cheek
Makes her look no more beautiful.
The sound of laughter is too cacophonous
And behind that smile is an evil smirk
Her meeting me is not due to stars
Just a matter of coincidence, though.
Because life pans like a nightmare sometimes
Unlike suburban myth and the movies
Where the script is written and rewritten.
The veil when put up sometimes
Masks not an angel, but a monster.
P.S: Do you like what I write. Maybe you would like to buy me a coffee: