It’s easy to see what others see,
Just look into a mirror.
Except when my eyes approach the glass
And a trembling hand moves hair out of a face
That belongs to a me that isn’t there,
When I feel the clench of teeth that aren’t mine
Baring a terrified, threatened smile,
The lungs of someone else threatening collapse
Like a tower of rose coloured glasses,  
A facade so beautifully crafted that upon its creation
It was given the wrong name.

I look into that mirror and only when the eyes,
The bars of the prison my soul desperately claws at,
Meet my mind do I truly see the person who is there,
The man who grew so safe in complacency
That he refused to question what it meant
To be anything other than what
His body told him.

There’s comfort in conformity,
Especially when the character is curated in such a way
Where no one's the wiser.
A costume so extravagant that even the mind gets swept away
By the splendors of dissociation because surely,
Surely this body belongs to this character
That was so painstakingly molded
By the roles and rehearsals presented to it, surely
The discomfort it feels with these mounds of flesh that hide the lungs
Is not because they shouldn’t be there, but because
They are making it so much easier to play the part
Of the one that isn’t me.

Surely I feel guilty and complicit when I speak because I am fooling everyone,
Fooling, Deceiving, Making it so incredibly easy to see
Someone who just isn’t nor has ever been there.
Even Myself, for 22 years.
For 22 years I’ve let myself take on a role rather than actually stop and think
That maybe I am not a girl who likes dolls,
Who likes dancing and dresses and lover’s confessions
And wrestling and writing and eating and lighting
Up the entire room when I laugh, No,
Maybe that was the rough draft of a character that was meant
To be played by a man.
Maybe, just maybe, it was a boy doing these things.
And when that name was crossed out and replaced
While the critics walked out and looked down with disgrace,
The boy in a dress with his chest all in lace
Finally let out the breath he was holding
For 22 years.

The mirror still lies on occasion to others,
But to me, I look and see past this body,
Past the hair and the chest and the shortness of breath
From the noose of conformity around my neck,
And I see the man that god made me.
And while I want so badly to be seen by the masses,
How I want to shatter their rose coloured glasses
So they see the waves of purple and blue that adorn me.
How I want the people who have scorned me
To say I didn’t delve from the scriptwriter’s plan,
It just took them awhile to see I was a man.

I know it will never happen.
That even as the curtain falls, no matter the costume or lack thereof,
They will only see the girl that isn’t there.
And maybe I will take this facade to my grave but as I return
To the one who truly made me,
He will say ‘welcome home, my son.
Your performance as her, it’s finally done.’

sobrang hinahangaan Kita dahil napakagaling **** gumawa ng mga istorya,
mga istoryang tila talo na pero sa huli ay naipanalo Mo pa.
sa una'y aping api ang bida
pero di nakakapagtaka na sa huli sila ay naging masaya
dahil pangako Mo na hindi kami mag-iisa.
Hindi kami magiisa dahil Ikaw ay kasama,
kasama sa hirap at ginhawa, sa lungkot at tuwa,
talikuran man kami ng madla Ikaw ay hindi mawawala.
Ikaw ang napako hindi ang Iyong mga pangako
kasalanan naming lahat ay Iyong inako
Iyong pagmamahal ay damang dama saan mang dako.
Daan mang tinatahak ay bako bako
Direksyon mang sinusunod ay liko liko
Walang sapat na rason para kami'y sumuko
Dahil pinaglaban mo kami at hindi isinuko.

It’s like I can’t keep up anymore,
I can’t keep up with the ones around me,
I can’t keep up with the ones that always see me wrong,
I can’t keep up with the ones that bite then smile,
I can’t keep up with even raising my own self,
In this jungle full of snakes,
Ready to spread venom,
Why are the good always seen as bad?
And the bad showered with praises?
Why is it that trying much isn’t an answer anymore?
Why is it that pain never leaves the heart?
And crying has become an endless saga of life?
Why do the ones we love never love us back?
And the ones that admire us, we can never love?
Why is it that the people we do good to always turn their back on us?
Betray us, leave us in pieces,
And then when we go far from their existence,
They still tend to poke their noses,
On what? Our business again?
Still, I want to raise my head up high,
Like a princess,
Like a regal,
I want to let them know that even when they leave me alone,
Even when they take the back seats and start laughing at my loopholes,
The One Above, The Scriptwriter of every story,
Has promised never to let me fall down alone,
And if falling does occur,
The Magnificent, he has guaranteed
To raise me above all their misdeeds….

the most ancient reason there is.

we do things in order to gain approval
or avoid judgement.

we will wear masks to hide our faces, thoughts, and personalities, to shield that which we think will be judged, in order to gain acceptance.

we will do things, say things, and even be things to gain approval, even if we disapprove of it.  

we are the fake at generation, ruled by fear and raised to be rebels.

my mask is a ***** who over estimates herself and doesn't care about others and never gets scared.
But how long can one stay in character, before they become the character...
and aren't they one in the same...

the best lies are based on the most truth.
therefore the masks we wear and the facades we create that earn us the approval and exile us from judgement, are the most believeable lies, which shows that the character, scriptwriter and actor are all the same.


so just how fake are we...?

Everyday, we meet
In the same smog of a city’s ignorance.
My right hand stays
Raised - in farewell or salute?

I feel not a little ridiculous
A man of flesh and blood
Poured into a concrete
Shell and painted gold

Stuck in the middle of
A thoroughfare and
Given my own road,
Roundabout and
Peeing spots for dogs and men.

I turned a 100 recently
In potential earthly years
And so, I got a spa treatment
Of poems and posies
From my undead enemies

Everyone had a fable
To share about my
Supposedly wonderful life.

While, I, the scriptwriter
Of many a horror tale,
Continued to play mute witness
To my never-ending death

As I waited to meet you again
In the same smog of a city’s ignorance.

The cartographer coddled by the satnav
He used to be king of the map
But he's become so reliant on it
Feels He should hand his qualifications back

The photographer produced such sterling work
Unattainable to the average ****
Now his darkroom tricks
Honed over decades
Leaves all cold
who can't do that?
We all reckoned

The scriptwriter a decade back
Pretended empathy with the working man
Total automation was the track
No human error was the plan
I'm ok I'm a creative they wouldn't dare replace me
Besides he laughed
No virtual engine could capture
The eternal verities.

He writes in
  in the sky and all,
    I say all can read.

He writes on the sea
  and neither it nor the waves
     can wash away His writings.

He writes everywhere
  and never suffers dryness of
    ink but His ink keeps overflowing.

Let's celebrate the Poet of poets
  who writes on the immortal
          canvass of glory in all seasons.

Let's lionise the Golden Pen
  that writes on the pages of
      eternity and can outwit
        -THE MASTER-SCRIPTWRITER!