Climbing a mountain on a rainy day
inspires you to embrace
the light showers that comes your way,
and humbles you down enough
to appreciate walking in the city streets
on a regular sunny day

I handpicked you,
with these hands that clawed their way out
of death and then back to your inner city.
More carefully than finding shells
on a beach, on an island down south.

I handpicked you,
with these hands that engraved stones
and carved runes from the walls.
More desperately than ancient men learning
how to write and draw for the first time.

I handpicked you,
with these hands that shook with the devil
and in the same manner, greeted saints with.
More intentionally than touching artifacts
in a museum, within a country of colonizers.

I handpicked you,
with these hands that wrote law, poems,
and stabbed enemies lurking in the tombs.
More defiantly than a monster experiencing
how it feels to be betrayed for the last time.

𝘚𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘢-𝘪,
My chosen,
you have no choice but to give in.
My love,
it is now my heart that you live in.
My destiny,
it is my body that you will be buried in.

My city...
I was here before it was even one,
my toys are older
than the high-rise buildings.
Yet all of my oldest dreams
have long been gone,
this is where new people
from far-away are dreaming.

People dream to visit here
even for a day,
I can't count the years
I've been trying to escape.
People travel here
to have a sip of coffee,
even the taste of water here
can tell that I am sick.

In the inner city,
while everyone takes photographs,
I try my best to walk
with my shoulders not dropped.
In the chic cafes
where others strike a pose,
I knew I never wanted more,
I had my dose.

My city,
that many people dream
of visiting and living in,
why, then there's me
who's here and feeling livid in.
My now-larger-city
that still feels like a small town,
I feel suffocated,
as if all my life I'm in a tight gown.

My favorite poem
is your hands on my neck.
If you need my lips all over you,
I'll deliver and keep it in check.
What about you?
You see I don't write love poems on paper,
I write them on the sheets.
You know my mouth and my tongue
are your new favorite sweets.
Enough of these rhymes,
we are just wasting time.
Just show me where your bedroom is,
and tell me how much you want me.
And I'll show you what you've been missing,
and it's heaven when you're deep inside me.
What about you?
What is your favorite poem?
I hope it's your hands on my neck.

First stanza, my upper lip
Second, his
The chorus, our tongue dancing
to the momentary rhythm.
Third stanza, my lower lip
Fourth, his
The bridge, a bite and a little pull,
sending us both to the brim.
Oh, this has to be my favorite song,
our kiss

They are the drops of rain in an island
as you ride through a storm on a motorbike.
The coconuts falling down your head
on a quiet beach.
They are the songs and poems
addressed to or meant to attack politicians.
They are slippery rocks on a river
and the current of a whirlpool
for the heavy steps
of the enemies.
And they are the soft cashmere carpet
and the fine, powdery sands
for the careful steps
of my lovers.

I want him to be smart and funny,
so I can forget curses and bury older jokes
with the music of our laughters.
I want him to be happy, I'll make him happy,
so we can drown our worries and sorrows
when we're in each other's company.
I don't want him perfect,
I want him faithful.
I want him to take care of me better,
I don't mind a little cold here and there,
as long as we know that our home
is full of warmth and it's ours alone.
I want him kind too, and warm,
so I can forget for a while the world is cruel
when I'm in the safety of his arms.
I don't want him perfect,
I want him gentle.
I want him to hold me tighter than ever,
I don't mind storms every now and then,
as long as we know we are each other's
own sanctuary, safe space and shelter.
I want him loyal and raw as I am,
so we can rest easy and sleep at night
knowing we're the same soul, we are one.
I don't want him perfect,
I want him all to myself and mine alone.

I would do it all over again:
Leave my safe space
Flee from this city of foolish sanctuary
Burn my body and face
Strut into an unknown territory
Fall down from grace
Give up my false sense of serenity

Trade my gold jewelries for pearls
Swap my diamonds for seashells
With the island air, I'd dance and twirl,
Along the ocean breeze, I'd twist and bend;
this bottled feeling is a message I won't send.

But I would do it all too:
Leave everything behind
if it's you I'll get to be with in the end
I would cut my own good hand,
go somewhere nobody can find
just for another day of me and you
in the island.

You think you'd have another chance
to make a dying wish
I was thinking I would take an endless glance
over some long lost art
We thought our tongues could have another dance
with an exceptionally good dish

We think we'd have another go
over things involving me and you
You were thinking there'll be more tomorrow
until tomorrow becomes "please, just go"
I thought I can have another taste of you
until your restaurant updates its new menu
until finally, there's no more me and you

You don't need to travel all over the world
to know that there are many Gods.
Plenty of teachings, multitude of words,
from west to east to your nest and back.
Hundreds of chants and hours of prayers,
written in ink of blood or black.

And I don't need to travel all over the world
to know that you were made by the same God
who created the vast oceans,
who sculpted the mountains,
who made the lightning,
who moulded the earth.

And I don't need to practice every religion,
learn the ways of all man,
to know that you are already my answered prayer,
to know that you are the one that I want,
to know that you are the man I would kneel before,
and pray as if your kiss is my final salvation.

And you don't need to pray anymore from now on,
learn the ways of no other unworthy man,
for you to know that my name is the only prayer,
to know the truth that I am the one you want,
to know that it's me you would sail the deadly seas, fight crusades for,
and call my name like a prayer, as if my touch is your new religion.

Before we know it, it will be another year.
A crisp, brand new air, an integration
of the piercing cold and blazing warmth.
Feel that tinge of satisfaction left by the aftermath of the rain and sun's
constant tug-of-war.
By then, my hair will be longer.
The bags under my eyes could become puffier or I could do something about them over the next summer, who knows.
But April and May can be deceiving.
They can make girls like me do things
normal girls only does in November.
I might crack a fortune cookie
or smash my head onto a crystal ball.
Just trying my luck. Or lack thereof.
That's if I decide that I no longer fancy
dancing to the sound of raindrops in July.
Hopefully I will grow taller, like your girls.
You've always adored my complexion
and I've always wanted it to be
a little darker; like that of light cinnamon.
By then, I wouldn't have to blink twice
when you tell me that you miss gazing into my eyes, the same way you yearn the feeling you felt when staring at the moon when you were a child.
Or I wouldn't have to force a smile out of my weary lips when you try to tell me how you're in love with me, with your lips falling into a grim line right after.
My eyes will be unfaltering, unchallenged.
My ribs will become protruded, I know.
The bags under my eyes, more pronounced.
I will probably become skinnier, and I might not really do something about it over the next and summers and more.
As this passing September air is a quick breath and a stained glass window to the ensuing months and switching seasons,
until it kisses the back of the hands of departing August, pull it closer to the end,
I will no longer have to wonder.
I write about September in hopes that
when I meet you in the eye,
I will be what you were wishing for.
But I'm afraid how my monsters are slowly becoming scarier each day.
Scarier for you to look in the eyes.
Scarier for you to dance with, even.
Next september, everything will be sweeter.
I am helplessly lusting over the mystery that
lies between all these tears
and couple more months of misery.
Next september, I'll be prettier.
I'll be stronger, smarter and braver.
And we'll be full of memories or regrets, more poems or everything all at once.
We'll be everywhere or nowhere to be found. Maybe they'd find us in one of the clouds or in a full theater without sounds.
By then, I hope I'm still not dead.
I hope our love is still burning bright red.

The original
The mother pearl of the orient
The mother church
The noble and ever-loyal
A poem in my mother tongue
Songs and dances in yours
People were dying here all the time
Now there are weddings, there’s even a line
People were shooting each other dead
Now there are kisses and laughters shared
López de Legazpi’s lego house
Joaquin’s literary muse
By sword and fire
By the walls of surprise
“But, Manila?!”
For the city we love to hate
And "Ahh, Manila..."
For the city we hate to love
There used to be blood splattered
brains scattered on the cobblestones
And until we’ll walk these streets together
hearts will be shattered in these cold walls
My home, sweet and hot and spicy Manila
Soon yours, darling lover
Through storms of desire
By my walls broken down in sight
My fortress, my quiet night
This is the Manila I want you to see
This is the postcard I want to send with glee
By sword and fire, here, I proclaim you mine
By these walls so high, I crawl, wait, and cry

When his fingers traversed along my freezing and weary arms,
cruised a little further inside the trenches of my spent thighs and
navigated across the tropics of my exhausted back,
I could only close my eyes and think,
"oh, this dream voyage has to be a dream indeed".
    Back then,
I knew that my worst nightmare would be his touch steering away from my aching and craving skin.

I've no need for sleep, until all the stars above our seas are free.
I've no desire to wake and rise, until the sun sets in our fields of rice.
I've no time to shed tears, until every drop of my ocean is allowed again to be salty.
I've nothing to lose, until I lose my motherland to the hands of another enemy.
I feel no hunger, until every farmer's family have something to eat.
I feel no thirst, until every fisherman's friends can sail and live.
I've no mind for pain and logic, until every politician's ideals are not from their ****.
I've no heart for heartbreak, until each of my countrymen's heartache has been healed.

I believe I've written of the sun, sand and sea countless of times;
even when it's pouring down and even when the cold december wind is tugging at the strings of my heart.
The last time I wrote of my summer,
I told myself that the next time I would, it would be from experience and not of make-believe.
Why should I write of the seagulls' noises when all I ever heard this year were the familiar chirps of the Maya birds?
I just trick myself into thinking that the chirps of a Maya is much more relaxing anyway.
Why should I write of the heat that burns past through my skin then onto my heart when I get to feel the same heat while walking the streets to and from our old house?
I could achieve my dream tan by doing that twenty times a day.
Why should I make poems out of the waves and shells when life here in the city is enough to drown me lifeless but could also leave me so dry at the same time?
Even more ironically, I never went out of my room—my safe shell that I never actually felt safe in.
April and May, farewell and apologies.
I took you for granted and now I must wait another weary, barren year and daydream for my summer.

Where could it be?
Where is this taking me?
My hopes are anything but high.
My ink for poetry is running dry.
Where is my one horse running off to?
Where exactly is the end of the rainbow?
I keep searching and screaming for it.
I keep yearning and yelling for this.
Still, it could be me and you.
Still, despite the shades of blue.
The last nugget of gold that I will rush to.
The last star that's burning in the metro.
This city ain't big enough for both of us,
but your room might just be.
There ain't room for both of us in this town,
but in my bed there might just be.

I… was going to write words, and they were going to make sense, and they were going to be songs of praises about his name.
Perhaps they would’ve been words about love, or about fantasy within irony, or plainly about my feelings; raw, uninhibited, loud, bold,
because I'm having way too much of them while trying to understand him, the masterpiece.
But then I watched my sanity fly, my soul depart from my bruised body and then my heart crashing, falling down for him.

The End.


Or is it just the beginning?

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦,
𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴”
Nature begs to be written,
walked over, talked about.
As beauty, art, landscapes,
birds, seascapes, also does.
No, they need to be spoken about,
sung hymns to, screamed atㅡsometimes.
And I would indeed stop and smell;
the roses, the sampaguitas,
admire and be awe-struck over
the lilies, the gumamelas,
even as they rot and dry away.
Even as I forget to eat, like a bad day.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬,
𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴”
Betrayal is part of human nature,
at this point and at this big age,
I suppose there is an equally
big truth in that. And much pain to boot.
And I suppose, too, I need to begin
to learn how to enjoy it.
Because betrayal too, has been
enjoying toying with me.
How do I write poems about it though?
Where do I even begin?
Probably with this:
“We used to be the best of friends,
but we were never each other’s
****** wedding guests.”

What I'd give to see that one weekend all over again
In a film
or perhaps read it in a novel
ㅡa year's worth of tears to feel the warmth of that riverlike stream again and a half-year's worth of winter in his eyes

a half year's worth of anguish to have him watch me fall asleep in a cold rainy night again and tuck me in for a month's worth of his familiar warmth.

a month's worth of thrown up food to get a taste of the liquor in his lips once more, to get intoxicated by his touches' week's worth of sweet summer in September.

a week's worth of disappointments just to have him light up a day's worth of my cigarettes again.

anything.

or maybe a few more sticks will do.

Ay isang pangungusap na hindi mo maiintindihan
at hindi ko rin maisasalin sa wikang alam nating dalawa.
Miski sa Ingles, ito'y tila katuwa-tuwa na;
"do you know how to walk on the rain?"
Kadalasan, walo sa sampung banyaga ang sasagot ng;
"what do you mean?"

Kayrami kong nais pang ibahagi sa'yo na mga pangungusap,
o kasabihan o ekspresyon o salawikain na hindi ko maisasalin,
ngunit para sa'yo, aking itutula o ilalarawan o ipapaliwanag,
itanong mo lamang, aking sinta, ipapaliwanag pati mga bituin.

Ngunit paano nga ba maglakad sa ulan?
Nang hindi natatalsikan ng putik ang puti kong binti?
Laging bantay ng mama kapag maulan: anak, ang talampakan!
Ngunit paano nga ba maglakad sa ulan?
Kung hindi lang kalsadang maputik, baha na ang lulusungin!
Ako na ngayon ang magtatanong: "what do you mean?"

Kayrami kong nais pang ibahagi sa'yo na mga pangungusap,
o kasabihan o ekspresyon o salawikain na hindi ko maisasalin,
ngunit para sa'yo, aking itutula o ilalarawan o ipapaliwanag,
itanong mo lamang, aking sinta, ipapaliwanag pati mga bituin.

Kung itatanong mo sa akin, giliw, kung natutunan ko na ba?
Kung paano nga ba maglakad sa ulan talaga?
Sasagutin kita ng hindi, at marahil hindi na ko matututo pa.
Mga binti kong gala ay pinagpabahala na ang alaga.
Hindi na ako nag-aalala sa putik at dumi at talsik.
Mga paa'y nakatikim na ng buhangin at iba pang bagsik.

Kayrami kong nais pang ibahagi sa'yo na mga pangungusap,
o kasabihan o ekspresyon o salawikain na hindi ko maisasalin,
ngunit para sa'yo, aking itutula o ilalarawan o ipapaliwanag,
itanong mo lamang, aking sinta, ipapaliwanag pati mga bituin.

Ah yes, I stopped asking and annoying the sun;
"what are his summer plans?"
Rains just started rolling, city thunders are singing;
"what about his homecoming?"
I can't even ask about his day
without subtly saying;
"are you almost on your way?!?"
so much for silent praying.
Ah but I don't care now what he does or where he goes,
the clouds are grey and cold, so is my little nose.
Storms are humming, pacific sun is in hiding, but teasing;
"okay, but I am not the one hiding something..."

If there is beauty in death,
there are hundred deaths in beauty.
If there is winning in suffering,
there are thousands of suffering to win.
Where is the red carpet to the exit door?
Is the way out the end all and be all?
Where is the limousine to forevermore?
Is winning truly at our beck and call?
Teach me how to say a graceful goodbye.
How do I make you read one more line?
Tell me a way to a more flawless farewell.
How do I make you come out of hell?
There is death in beauty,
suffering in winning,
winning over death,
death of suffering.

Sa gitna ng mga pangungusap at patinig,
sumisirit pa rin ang kislap, sumisitsit pa rin ang iyong tinig.
Sa harap ng mga katinig at mga salitang hiram,
mawala man ang tuldik, at impit, ika'y tutulo pa rin, tila ulan.
At sa likod nitong mga tula at awit ay ang tunay na ibig sabihin,
sana'y maunawaan mo pa rin ang sambit ng aking labi.
At sa ibabaw nitong mga salita, may hindi pa rin maisawika,
nawa'y maintindihan mo pa rin na ikaw ang sinisinta.
Ibabalik ko lahat sa'yo itong mga hiram na salita,
salin mula sa iyong lengguwahe, isasauli ng aking banyagang dila.
Pahintulutan **** ialay sa iyong may dagdag-bawas,
tila makabagong relihiyon, ngunit pangakong hindi ako mag-aaklas.

I'm not hoping for much
I'm not even hoping for
the good of hope anymore
But if there's a few things
I'd still hope for at all;
I hope you're being haunted
by the things we talked about,
by the jokes only we knew
and laughed about.
I hope you're being followed
by the plans you didn't want to make,
but couldn't say it out loud
I hope my jokes lingers in your head,
I hope my laughter rings in your ear
as you crash in another woman's bed,
I hope you're further away as possible
as you pull her unfamiliar body near.
I hope my hobbies are
now becoming yours,
I hope my multitude of dreams
have inspired you to maybe
finally have at least one of your own,
I hope that all these time, we have grown
whether into each other or apart,
I hope I have became your mountain and your rock,
despite never needing one,
as you have always been your own.
I hope you'll never have to wonder
how the heat of my touch feels like anymore,
I hope you'll never have to wonder
how I smell like and how you'd keep wanting more.
I hope that at night you are not alone
I really hope you are not sulking,
thinking and drinking all on your own.

We observe. We listen. We watch.
If we, too, will be observed back.
We crucify. We criticize. We ostracize.
Before we, too, will be crucified.
And we read each other
as if our faces are some pages.
And we judge each other
as if our phases are just cases.
But people are not books.
We cannot read each other,
our stories changes and hooks
with every passing hinge and look.
I’d rather we write of each other
as if we are all authors of no horrors.
I’d rather we pen one another,
as if everyone is their own poet and writers.
Because people are poems.
Because we are poetry in flesh.
Because people are problems.
And people are also the solutions.

I dream of wearing the perfect red dress,
skin-tight but easy to take off,
the fabrics light yet hard enough for
men to take their eyes away from.
And did you know that I love how your name rhymes well with death?
If my skin would bleed or sweat out rhymes,
it might as well be to the sound of your name.
My guts shall dance to your liking,
watch my blood flow like the wine
you've been gulping.
Do as you please, but please never go easy.
My body is made for the opposite.
Now excuse me, while I go and search for the
perfect
red
dress.

My heart is a walled city,
an inner city with fortresses so high.
On all corners, cannons await enemies.
I protect my heart fiercely for I know
how fierce my heart and love can be.
My heart is an inner city,
protected by centuries behind me.
On all eight gates, soldiers are guarding closely.
I have walls so mighty and high for I have
been dragged bloodily through these streets.
My heart is within a walled, inner city,
yet somehow you have authority,
you have some special key.
I am a newer, poorer, younger city,
some jewel or pearl of the east,
tell me, are you my king?

Sometimes,
I can't help but sit, sigh and stare at nowhere
and wish, wonder and probably wait
for a different meeting
for a different time
for a different place.
our hearts less heavier,
our houses a little bit nearer
our smiles much more brighter,
the worries are somewhere farther.

But most of the time lately,
I wish I can just ******* forget you.

until the next life or the after.

𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘺 (𝘯); 𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺;
𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘴: 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘵, 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳,
𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦

I know who I am
Yet I don't mind being contained inside a stereotype
I'd even laugh with them or crack a harder joke,
if that means with you, I'll get to spend more time.
I know that in surprise of my truth, they will all choke.

I know myself
I've sworn with blood I won't throw my heart so far
like a boomerang that mindlessly takes flight.
But I don't mind being inside the comfort of your car,
especially being found with you there late at night.

I know what I want
I chase my dreams daily, men only every two years
And I don't mind the name-calling and naysays
Because what I want can't be bought with tears
and all they'll ever know about me is my name anyway.

I know what I'll get
But if it's you, I'll take what I can and hope I won't need
Even if it feels like looking into those eyes of yours is a crime
Because life before you have been stereotypical indeed
So I don't mind, no I don'tㅡin hundreds of jails I'd merrily do time.

I know what you'll get
And if it's not me, there are always the girls
waiting for you back home
or the ones who anticipates you
wherever you may cross, dock or land
Because I have a feeling life after you
would feel like I've always been alone
But would you mind? If I ask you
to hold me longer and take my hand?

Do we know where we’ll go next or what we'll both get?
If it's not with you and me,
there are thousand other pretty faces and luscious lips...
But can they ever fill the void I've left?
and will I ever stop thinking about what they lack?
Because I have a feeling there's more to this,
I've never missed anyone's hand on my hips...
But would you mind? If I ask you
to give me another night, will you ever come back?

Now here enters a woman who reads;
and voraciously, too.
In the coffee shop, in a wine bar,
in the meat shop, in a funeral.
Now here enters a woman who’s a poet;
she writes as one would deal drugs.
In the dark, in the down low,
in well-versed hush, in rehearsed rush.
Now here enters an angry woman;
“how feisty, I bet she’s a *****.”
Points fingers at men twice her size,
she punches mouths until they bleed out lies.
Now here enters a healthy woman;
healed as her anger is not suppressed,
she exercises, eats less than the rest,
hushes her mouth as the poison’s out.

And this is why I’m not an actress.
I enjoy the behind-the-scenes, all their mess.
But it was never my forte to pretend.
This is why I’m a writer.
I create chaos and horrors only on paper.
Between play and pretend, I pick the former.
And maybe this is why I’m not popular.
I simply love my privacy and personal cellar.
Be in the dark, adore the closed doors.
This is why I’m only a poet.
If I should fit your mould, God forbid.
And this is why I wish to remain unknown.
If I must kneel before you, I’d just go home.
And this is precisely why I’m not an actress.
I’m already in so much burden and stress.
I’m a poet, for christ’s sake!
Oh, I could also be fake!
Ah, but I’d rather eat my popcorn,
sit within my pretty little bubble,
while honing my tiny horns,
causing no silly troubles.

Why are you resisting?
You know that my place is all things holy.
Deep down, you're aware I am your sanctuary.
You too, are indoctrinated, yet another skeptic.
Come inside, I might just change your mind.

𝘊𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘴?
𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘮.
𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴?
𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘮.

Why are you fighting this?
You know that all I have is nothing but sacred.
One look up, you'll see the promised garden.
Like me, victim of religion, the wine to your bread.
Come here and hide, I might just change your life.

𝘊𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘴?
𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘮.
𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴?
𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘮.

For an instance, we would meet and exchange passive glances
on the metro station for the very first time,
we're going to be looking at the same advertisement or propaganda poster,
knowing of each other's presence
but never acknowledging...
then we would ride the same train.
Perhaps we're holding on to the same railing but our fingers are never touching.
How I wish that was a busy monday morning instead of an easygoing
sunday evening,
so then I would've been smashed against you the moment I stepped foot in the train
or should've felt your body heat around me
at the very least.
Just like in the movies.

For an instance,
we would see each other for the first time
in a lazy corner coffee shop,
there are going to be about fourteen to twenty-seven people in.
There's you, me, the baristas, the harmony of your voice among the chatters of others.
Sadly, you were sitting with your back turned from me and fairly enoughㅡI am too, because we both hate looking at people's faces or being looked at while sipping our coffee.
Or maybe I'll choose one of the high stools for the time being, forgetting the fact that my back would hurt after half an hour.
I'll pretend to be productive while you're in one of those couches, and God knows what you're trying to pretend about?
That you didn't notice me as I walked by?
When you know so well that your whole atmosphere and realm just shifted for good?
Oh, this is why I like you in the first place,
you're a bit funny, too.

But what if we'd first talk on a record store?
You're rummaging through alternative rock while I slowly feel the new wave record sleeves run through my already dusty fingers, slightly tapping them too with the beat of the store's background music.
Not knowing of each other's presence,
I'll turn to the isle and see you there.
You check me out, you're preoccupied but you still paid me a glance,
before giving me a faint, subtle smile.
I'll smile back at you sweetly and my heart will then have to faint a bit, too.
Or we might both be looking for the exact same album, how idealistic.
But unlike the movies, we'll talk about it instead of fighting over who saw it first.
And who should get to bring it home.
We would both be surprised of each other's preference in music, possibly amazed.
Or perhaps a little in love already,
one foot down in the grave.
Either way, I would know right away we would touch and create melodies, just like needle to record grooves.

It could be on a mountain trail,
a near-death experience, on a hospital, on a beach or in the middle of the ocean,
a museum, my birthday, the airport, EDSA, your grandpa's death anniversary;
any location and any scenario,
there would be no better place
and no better moment.
Because the very moment and time
we would meet for the very first time
Would be the best way right away.
However.
Wherever.
Whenever?
No I wish, pray and beg it to be sooner.

Tonight I'm...
Wearing my mom's red lipstick,
Getting all tangled up in cords
Thinking about how...
Your lover can turn you into magic
While I can only turn you into words
Thought together we...*
Could be more than just electric.
But did you know when we met, the angels all sang in accord?

You are my summertime,
my burning sun, my tropic,
my morning dew, my sunshine.
You are the reason why
my sunset and sunrise became one,
meeting in the middle of my equinox.
You are the reason why I felt again,
why I can feel the seasons all at once
like feeling both pleasure and pain.
But when winter swings by,
I'd hold your hand close
to my chest like a locket.
and pull you closer to me
like my favorite jacket,
take in your scent
like my mug of coffee,
consume you
for your warmth and ease.
In the morning if our porch is piled in snow,
we'd greet the cold with laughter and glee.
I would wrap you around me
like my thickest scarf,
hell I would even be
the fire to keep you warm.
You are my summertime,
but when winter and cold comes around,
I will stay beside you in the blizzard,
eternally blessing the day
that I have ever walked your ground.
This is a promise I am making
right in the middle of summer,
that I would be with you
in any season and every weather.

I am filling my days with tick boxes
and to-do lists
Entertaining myself with others' inconveniences.
To save my heart from further
crack and freeze,
I play games and reward myself
with my own prizes.

I am burying every lingering question,
like you kept yours
locked inside the closet.
Like disposing our shared laughters
of their echoes and sounds,
I cover my own mouth as I cry
so no other soul hears it.

I am reducing my feelings to logic
Even my poetry and art have
become awfully calculated.
Compartmentalizing my daily plans
into sorry yet efficient lists,
I survive the nights by believing
losing me makes you elated.

I am weighing in the pros and cons,
like dancing with my own body
on a brittle balancing act.
Whispering lullabies
to my own weary heart and soul,
I find comfort in knowing
it will never come back.

Ang gabi ay hindi dapat maging kaibigan ng delubyo.
Nangangambang baka sa isang sulok ay may nag-aabang na demonyo.
O baka sa likod pa natin mismo.
Saksi ang dagat at bundok sa pananaghoy ng bagong umaga.
At sino ang hindi makakaamoy sa pagsabog ng mga tala?
At nasaan ang gabi, ang inaakalang tanging katuwang?
Kasiping ba ng mga pangarap para sa bayan,
na siya nang nilamon ng digmaan?

Lumuluha ang bawat lawa at nagtatanong ang mga talon;
makakaahon pa ba ang nalunod na tuwa't pag-asa ng kahapon?
O baka ang tuwa ay siya na'ng hinigop ng langit.
Pinagtatawanan na tayo ng langit!
Sa mga dugong dumanak at ang naglalakasang pagtatangis
na tila ba isang bulong sa bingi,
tama nga't hindi ko kaibigan ang gabi!

Ganid ang gabi, palaging uhaw at nasisidhi sa kasawian,
sa mga buwaya tila ito ang kanilang kaharian!
At ang ngalan ng may akda ng munting tula na ito ay "delubyo".
Paminsan-minsan maaari niyo ring tawaging demonyo.
Hindi na ako magpapaligoy-ligoy pa, sa sulok ay hindi na magtatago. Haharap ako para tingnan ang bawat isa sa inyo sa mata.
Sa dangal. Sa diwa. Sa puso. Sa dasal.
At kakalabanin nyo dapat ako gamit ang mga ito...
hanggang sa pag-usbong ng bagong umaga.

Pula, bughaw at dilaw laban sa kadiliman.

Lemme start with the letter L for
Ley/Lex

A for Actus reus;
Alibi, Alter ego,
AND my favorite; Ad nauseam

Nemo debet esse judex in propria causa or
Nemo judex in causa sua or
Nemo judex in sua causa

Contra,
consensus,
𝗖𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗼𝗺𝗻𝗶𝗮 𝗲𝘅 𝘀𝗲 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗮 𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗮𝘁.

E for Ex post facto.
Estoppel!
Ex gratia...

Quid pro quo, thanks for the comedy gold.
Amicus curiae, you have no friend to spare.
Res ipsa loquitur, go run and hide
like the ***** that you are...

***** de jure...

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘐 𝘰𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
For all of the books I’ve read, I thank you.
And for all of the magazines I’ve enjoyed, too.
My first notes and love letters, you are the recipient.
Written all for you, to tell you that you’re heaven-sent.
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘐 𝘰𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
I learned my ABC’s because of you.
All of my first words were taught by you, too.
I would learn more languages for you, create more art,
Just so I could tell you over and over; “I love you to my heart”
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘐 𝘰𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
Because of you, my first colors were not shades of blue.
Thanks to you, I am chasing after my dreams, both old and new.
My books are the jewels in your crown.
My poetry is your kingdom come.
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘐 𝘰𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
You were there when I first picked up a pencil,
you are still here as you open this poem with a seal.
You are the queen of my letters and poems,
you are the angel of my hopes and dreams.
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴, 𝘐 𝘰𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

I’m running out of metaphors.
In that sense, ‘metaphors’ is a metaphor
for your time, not mine.
And you’re running out of good years.
In that sense, ‘good years’ is a metaphor
for your options, also not mine.
I wanted to be the one to make you happy,
I wanted you to be the subject of my poetry.
But what else can a woman like me do?
I am a little girl in front of a man like you.
What gift do you get a guy
who seem to have it all?
Where do you take a man
who’s been everywhere?
What song can you sing
to someone who’s heard every sound?
What else can you give
to somebody who’s done it all?
What poem can I write for you,
that will make you want to choose me?
And what can you do to impress
a person who’s been with everyone?

Silence.
Nowhere.
Static.
Nothing.
Blank page.
Radio silence.

Here in this castle,
in my tower,
no one and nothing
can hurt me but myself.
Walls are built out of silver and gold
that I begged the laws of the universe for.
I might be the princess that sleeps,
but will never feel the pea
that lies underneath my piles of bed
made out of skeleton bones.
Now yes, I lie on them...
they reside not in my closet
but beneath my frail, sorry body.
Some nights, I am one of the skeletons myself.
I might be the very monster
that I have been fearing for the past two weeks.
I might be making the very noises
that keeps me up until morn.
Have you ever seen a fortress
with the enemies lurking within?
Gates with the robbers
who are playing cards inside?
Welcome to my little world,
welcome to my tower.
Where I can craft deadly words,
in here I hold the most power.

The people from your hometown and I
got something big in common;
we always wait for you.
And your words.
They complete and make our days.
If not all, then most days.
We await news from you
like a rooster would wait for sunshine
before it sings in the morning.
Like I would wait for you
to tell me you adore me before I can sleep,
and wake and repeat this all over again.

When was the last time you've wondered what's out there waiting for us two?
Was it last year? Or the last time I thought I left again only to return and redeem myself from you?
How cruel must it be if we really are meant to be together?
We always chase and tug between time,
bet and roll dice on distance and its false promises.
Where do we even go from here?
Further away from the winning streaks
or closer to the losing games?
When was the last time we made wishes for each other?
Will I even ever find another whole crazy person to share all my little victories and enormous troubles with?
Someone who would not keep record of all my wins and losses,
someone who would meet me in the middle of the plays and pauses.
Someone to run across continents with, chasing chances and begging for nuances.
I'd rather chase and run with you between countries and cities and stolen moments than between life and death.
But as I reckoned the chase with you right here is nonexistent,
my own life and my own death would be chasing each other instead.

And you can't drown a woman who was raised by the ocean
and nourished by the islands.
You can't sink a ship and bring it to its knees.
But you can't soak a girl who grew up in floods of garbage
and emerged from bountiful farms.
You can't splash the rain and wet the storms.
You can't bring down a woman from mud,
with hands smeared by dirt from every dead God.
You can't bury an angel you tried to give hell,
with a body from heaven sent as your help.
You can't freeze a ***** whose heart is ice,
you should be ashamed of your foolish lies.
You can't burn a queen that's made of fire,
but you'll regret trying for the rest of your life.

Sweet envy,
I'm envious of how she was blessed by the gods to have looked into your eyes, eye to eye. To study their color and watch how they look when you lie.
She knows the way you blink and how you close them when you sleep at night.
I hate thinking how you've both spent some nights.
The thought of her taking granted of breathing the same air as you boils my blood.
I'm jealous of how she was able to graze her fingers upon your skin, let them travel across your back
and how her hand once held yours... only to foolishly, finally and thankfully let them go.
I curse and bless the day she broke your heart.
I curse each day that I have to live with this jealousy.

Holy jealousy,
I'm jealous of the kind of jealousy you've made her feel, like when you would glance at another girl when you're together.
Or how you'd talk to a girl in a cafe or bookstore when you thought she wasn't looking over her shoulder.
Or how you'd talk to anyone about anything at all without uttering her name.
I'm jealous of how you two probably used to stand across each other in a room and throw blames.
I could imagine countless of scenarios but then
I also imagine I'm the one feeling that too.
I can take that any day, as long as we're together too.
Because the only jealousy I feel is jealousy of your past. This fiery envy towards your history.

****** history,
I'm reading into every words you said like memoirs and piecing every excerpt trying to look for answers. Answer as to how and whyㅡhow she broke your heart and why she did it.
Would you change a thing about everything you did?
I ask and scream these questions to the moonlight.
Yet if you tell me and show me the answers yourself, there's not a single battle that I would win and fight.
Yet I search for clues in every old photo, in every message and through my sly, secret ways.
Must I scour every corner and highway?
So I can come up with answers to my own 'how and why'? How can I mend your broken heart?
Why do I love you this much?

Because above all, I am a revolutionary.
I acknowledge my envy, work through my jealousy and respect your history.
But then again, with every dark history comes the need for revolution and change.
And I am the catalyst who will spearhead that game.
I am your new age.
I am your renaissance.
I am your vengeance, nirvana, revolution and everything at once.

For every gaze,
old wounds open once again.


For every unanswered SMS,
scars freshen up like new from yesterday.


For every unintentional graze of
your fingers,
the old wounds heal themselves.


For every shared laughter on and offline,
scars from yesterday springs back
to years ago.

Your grumpy face in the mornings,
Your exhausted sigh in the evenings
Every late night until late breakfasts,
Every sunset that makes us whisper "at last"
All that makes us ourselves, all that's true
are all the reasons that makes me love you.
Catching the sunrise, breathing in the ocean breeze during the heat of summer.
Watching the snowfall and embracing the freeze during the hell of winter.
Our hands are locked through it all
These are the daily, mundane moments
I don't mind living with you and leaving with you for every rise and fall.

Please intertwine your routines with mine
Won't you spend sunsets with me
in the summertime?
I am not one to believe in forever after,
but I am one with you
for all seasons and weather.

You can kneel to pray,
before you commit one more sin
as you do every hour and everyday.
You can pray to avoid the calls of sin,
before you take on a bigger atrocity,
throwing both law and faith down the bin.
But rules are meant to be bent,
just like my body against the table,
or across the vastness of your bed.
But I am the revolution, your new law,
and you would learn the best way
that without me, you're as good as lost.

When I say my words are powerful,
I mean it could both be
for the worse or for better.
When I say my words are heavy,
I meant it for hurting, rolling punches
or for lifting and helping hands.
When I say my words could ****, I mean it.
No wordplays or metaphors needed.
If I say my words feels like kiss, I mean it.
I know how to wield them in battlefield,
I know how to write with them for poetry.
So when I say my words are powerful,
I mean it could both be
for the worst or for the best.
So for you my darling lover,
or prospective enemy,
what’s it gonna be?
So here’s to you, my chosen, my love,
or potential slave and loyal servant,
who do you want to be for me?