Hell, I would write a poem about you
and not talk about your eyes
the way they don't even see me now
or your mouth, the way
they don't seem to recognize my name
or your hair, which reminded me of summer
the way they flaunt and dance with the wind
back when you haven't cut it
or your hugs, one arm up my neck
the other holds my arm
or your scent that is beyond aesthetic
of an artwork placed behind your ears
or laugh, the way it makes me
think of the future,
or your name
which is always be
precious

I guess I failed, about not talking about them
all of them, all of you
I guess I am not yet tired
I guess want to be reminded
I guess I still can write about you
even if it's Sunday, and I've missed a thousand masses
I am not sacrilegious, you are

"when I fell in love with your long brown hair,
you decided to cut them off..."

But I didn't fell off
I stayed here
Hell, writing another for you
always

You are the candle a meter away from me.
  The little light you create was enough to burn
  my eyes, and I had to look away
  not for too long. I got addicted to your flame.

I refuse to elevate my eyes an inch from
  the yellow light in front of me.
  Over and over, I reckon and I reckon
  that your heat isn't burning me right, it was burning me from my insides.

You bend, you deform yourself, you break
  ever so gracefully, like dancing through the stagnant wind.
  And in that moment, your body is telling me
  a flame can die if the blow is too strong.

But you are the candle a meter away from me,
  and the space, the distance was too far
  even with your flame too yellow
  my lungs couldn't breathe enough air to make your flame flutter.

This is the feeling of a wild grass,
with needs gathered from morning dew,
a patch of soil, and from the juice of other plants' roots.
This is the feeling of a wild grass,
will live silently in the shadows of the real sprouts
of nature. What is my worth if the only heaven I'll reach
is just up to the soles of your feet?
What is my worth?

This is the feeling of a wild grass,
i will live with no worth,
i will die without saying a word.

Ito pala ang pakiramdam ng ligaw na damo,
may pangangailangang kinukuha sa hamog ng umaga,
sa lupang kakarampot, at sa katas ng ibang ugat ng ibang halaman.
Ito pala ang pakiramdam ng ligaw na damo,
nananahimik na namumuhay sa anino ng tunay na sibol
ng kalikasan. Ano ang aking silbi kung ang langit na nais kong marating ay hanggang talampakan lamang ng tao?
Ano ang aking silbi?

Ito pala ang pakiramdam ng ligaw na damo,
mabubuhay ng walang halaga,
mawawala ng walang sinasambit.

Tell me when you are ready to run
and we will sprint the highways together
with our hands beside us and our past behind
we will try to change directions
but the wind always wins
it's not a choice, it's a wave we'll flow through
the current and even if it hurts
I will make sure I'd get the pain
and you'll just be drenched with the illusion
that this path is good, that this path doesn't hurt.
You will tell everyone that you didn't need me
and that I am pathetic and overly dramatic
but remember this
I waited for you
to be ready, and when you said your yes
it was both our decision
i thought we got this together
it ended up, and i was dumbstruck
this was a race
your hands designed, your mind twisted it all
told me we got this
together
and now I ended up as a loser
of a game
i helped you mold together

i don't even know what to feel
or if there is anything left to endure
my eyes fog up, an i can barely see
where my fingers are going,
it's a place i've known for a while
a silent suffering of endless tearing
and breaking and falling
my words ran from describing
the depth of the hollowness inside my chest

i feel so stupid to even feel this way,
but whenever i think that this is an illusion
that i imagined the throbbing inside my rib cage
because when i do,truth slaps my face and tells me
it is real, this is happening,

you
        are
              hurting.