Nakakatawang isipin na “Asshole” ka kapag nagagandanhan ka pa rin sa ibang mga babae kapag may girlfriend ka na, pero “Asshole” ka pa rin kapag nainis ka kasi nagagwapohan ang girlfriend mo sa isang hunk actor, k-pop superstar, basketball player, office/classmate, etc. ‘Di ka na pwedeng mag appreciate ng beauty ng iba, pero bawal kang makialam sa fan-girling to the nth level ni syota. ANHEYRAPH VAYSHIES!
Tagal na din mula nung huli.
Balita ko iba ka na ngayon.
Binago ng dilim at ng panahon.
Ikaw pa rin naman yan,
Dama pa rin ang lungkot sa mga mata.
Pero nagawa mong mabuhay sa kasalukuyan.
Nagawang pekeng ginto ang mga pahina ng librong ikaw ang may akda.
Sabi nila umiiwas ka pa rin sa tulong.
Mandirigma ka pa rin, mag-isang lumalaban sa lungkot at depresyon.
Pero kaya pa ba?
Alam natin parehong mahirap.
Ang humarap sa mundo ng mag-isa.
Ang patuloy na bumangon at magpanggap.
Ganoon tayo lumaki,
Ganoon tayo tumanda,
Ganito tayo palagi,
Ganito para satin ang payapa
So, this is what it’s like
To have something to live for,
To have someone that makes you better,
To live instead of just existing,
To give without the intention of receiving,
To cherish every breath from heaving lungs.
I’ll remember, that this isn’t ephemeral.
Long ago, you were just an idea,
A concept rejected by melancholy,
An entity labeled as half-truth by my personal demons.
And though you may leave,
Grow into something and become just a memory,
You’ll always be that renewed pulse,
That fire that gave me life again.
“Why do you write?”
A question coming from the mouth of a woman I’ve known for years that resonates through every crevice of my mind.
I actually do not know.
Even I ask myself that.
As a form of catharsis?
A creative way of release?
A method to express my true self?
A way to reach out others?
I looked for reasons in the pieces I’ve written.
But none of them offered me a definite meaning.
I’ve written about a lot of things.
I made poems about women.
I made poems about my surrender to smoking,
How I’ve fought hard to stop drinking.
I’ve written sonnets for my mother,
As well as depressing elegies for my father.
I’ve written about her,
About loving her,
About being loved by her,
Then wrote about what broke us, what our mistakes were.
I’ve written about my love for music,
The songs that keep me grounded.
I’ve talked on some about my country,
About the past, and my passion for psychology.
Tackled politics even if I think its crap.
And stories I can genuinely laugh at.
I want to write about the love I can no longer give.
And maybe about finding someone I’d be willing to argue with.
I can give you a list.
A long list of things I find interesting.
A long list of titles,
Of different categories.
But I still can’t answer that question.
Why do I write?
Why do we write?
I just want to.
I have to.
I just need to write.
I’ve kept on living even under different circumstances,
All those conditions, all those consequences.
I went through hell, came back the same.
Embraced the deserters, waved goodbye to those who came.
I got over the anger, I survived the blues.
But frankly, my dear, I can never survive you.
Hindi ako sumuko sayo,
Hindi ako sumuko sa atin.
Tinalikuran mo ako.
Kinailangan kong bitawan ang pag-ibig natin.
Pinili mo ang paglaya.
Tiniis ko ang sakit na nadarama.
Ngayon, magbabalik ka.
Nagtatanong kung pwede pa ba.
(While preparing for my client interview for grad school, I needed to read some of my old college notes. While doing this, I stumbled upon some of the poems I wrote while I was bored to death during some of my college classes. This is one of the poems I wrote. This one I wrote during my senior year. I have never been nostalgic, but this actually made me feel a bit bad and good about my college life. I was contemplating on the fact that I’d be leaving a part of my life that I’ve known too well, I was graduating while writing this.)
Eight years of sailing
Through the rapids of learning,
Of trying to live a life
In four corners of a crowd-filled room.
Trying to win a battle
In a ghetto named “Existence”.
A broken promise
Is a heavy hanging albatross,
A broken façade
Made for a fallen man
As he faltered to sickness,
A disease that became a familial cross,
A memory, vague yet sad,
A heart consumed by a ruined plan.
But I chose to learn,
To understand the world
From things not spoken,
Things neither theorized nor written.
The pavement became my room,
And reality was my professor.
I kept writing free verses.
For every downfall was another poetic sentence.
And now, this transition
Is nothing but bittersweet
A foe and friend I can never beat
I embrace it instead
Knowing that it will never leave.
I will always be a man
Happy though weak.
Hoping for better days,
Solemn and meek.
I regret nothing,
In silence my mind still speaks.