Ilang oras na akong nagsusulat
Ilang tinta at papel na ang nasayang
Pero hindi ko alam kung bakit hindi ko malabas ang nais iparating ng puso
Wala akong magawa kung hindi titigan ang mga nasayang papel na nasa gilid ng aking mga kamay
Ilang ulit na akong nagpalit nang kulay ng tinta ng bolpen, nagbabakasaling kung kulay pula ang gamiting pangsulat, mawawala ang lungkot na nadarama na may mahal kang iba
Baka kung kulay dilaw ang bolpeng gagamitin mawawala ang sakit na nagpapaala-ala na hindi ako ang dahilan ng mga ngiti sa iyong labi
Baka kung kulay berde ang bolpeng gagamitin maglalaho ang mga luhang hindi maubos-ubos tuwing nakikita kitang kapiling siya
Ano pa ba ang dapat gawin?
Ilang papel pa ba ang masasayang para sayo?
Ilang kulay pa ba ng bolpen ang kailangan masayang para malaman ang nais sabihin
Hindi ko alam kung ano at paano
Ano ba ang dapat gawin para mawala ka sa isipan?
Paano ba kita bibitawan kung alam kong sa pagtawid sa kulay pula ramdam kong ako lang nakakapit?
Paano ko hihigpitan ang paghawak sa daming tumatawid sa dilaw na dahilan para bitawan ka kung alam kong malayo ka na para abutin pa
Paano kita hahanapin sa huling kulay berde kung alam kong wala na, tapos na
Wala ng dahilan para magpatuloy
Dahil alam kong hindi tamang ipagpatuloy itong bugso ng damdaming na kahit saang anggulo, hindi tama, hindi nararapat
Kaya hayaan mo kong sayangin ang mga papel, bahala na kung magalit ang kalikasan
Hayaan mo akong maubos ang lahat ng kulay ng ballpen dahil dito ko nalamang masasabi ang mga salitang dapat iparinig sayo
Wala na akong magagawa kung hindi hayaan ang panahon
Hayaan ang sariling humilom
Hindi ko alam kung gaano katagal
Pero hayaan mo, makakapagsulat ulit din ako gamit ang isang papel at kulay itim na bolpen balang araw para sa tunay na nakalaan nito
Pero sa ngayon hayaan mo lang muna akong titigan ka sa malayo habang nakatuon ang iyong mata sakanya
Hayaan mo lang muna akong iyakan ka habang hindi mo mapigilan ang ngiti sa iyong labi kasama siya
Hayaan mo lang akong masanay sa sakit, baka sakaling magsawa ako at hayaan ang sariling sumaya ulit...kapiling ang iba

I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!

I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.

non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom

Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.

Pinangako ko noong gabing
Lumisan ka at akoy iyong iniwan,
Na hindi na muli ako maglilimbag
Ng kahit anong kanta o tula
Na naglalarawan ng mga nararamdaman ko sayo

Ngunit heto ka nanaman
Biglang lumitaw mula sa kawalan
Muling pinaparamdam ang dapat di ko na maramdaman
At muling ginugulo ang tahimik ko nang isipan.

Pinangako ko na hindi na muli ako magsusulat
Ngunit heto ako ngayon,
Nangangati ang mga kamay na muling humawak
Ng ballpen at gawin ang bagay na matagal ko nang kinalimutan—na hindi pa naman pala

Muling inilimbag ang mga sakit
Muling isinumbong sa papel ang mga hinanakit
Muling nagbabakasali na sa aking pagsusulat
Muling maghilom ang mga peklat

At sa wakas sa dinami dami ng kalyo
Na aking natamo
Sa aking mahabang pagsusulat,
Muling naghihilom ang mga sugat

Muling kakalimutan ka
At kapag biglang naalala
Muling maglilimbag at magsusulat
Susubok makalimot muli sa lahat

My poem is me
Everything related to me

I saw myself like a paper
That lifeless without a letter

And my experience in my ballpen
When I mistaken
And then I'm going to erased
But then the mark is still there
Always reminds me my yesterday

So now I disided to used a pencil
So that my mistake
Will come to be lifeless and buried with a grave

t’s pretty painful to try to grasp what’s real
when the emptiness in your soul is all that you feel.

So.
This ballpen of mine offered me a deal,
he said:
In order for those shallow wounds of yours to heal,
the lines you create must have an appeal.

In short, your sentence need to rhyme,
for that ragged heart of yours to be fine.

Would a blue ballpen without ink just lie
To die, like the children of our past needs,
The mouths of their thinning souls leeching
Our piety, our profanity, our tendency to build society
Off faces and masks,
                              Individual fragments of ourselves.

Would one give a thousand pesos to he who smears
Windshields with soap to take a few coins hostage
Or to she who exhibits a gaunt infant, an offspring
Of want, not wanted, the wear and tear of a rough
World manifest on emaciating juvenile skin. Would one
Give a thousand?
                              Would one commit a kiss?

When mere change can buy a pen with its full blood,
What then is the worth of the bleeding, the bearded
Blind on the somber sidewalks of forgetfulness where
Without ink, it ceases to be blue, and unable to write,
            He has no need for a pen.
The world is writing his story,
            He is only there to punctuate with his blood.

This is an Instrument a Verser must have
Without it, we cannot Write with Love.


This Tool, yet so small
Does so many for All.


Ink-Filled Skinney,
With a ball-soaked head.
Passing-out stains of Blue Blood
And creating Words which Read.


People throughout Literacy
Seek for this Sword.
To furnish their own Feelings
And Bsuiness in the Ring.


It all started,
With a large, downey feather
From the Swan's sacrifice,
Dipping the tip with sticky paint,
And scribbling onto leather.


Paper, in progression, was its Factor
Then came the Fountain - Civil Man's writing major.


This Pen does well
And so does much.
Ink goes up,
Goes down,
Though still plans to Blot.


However it may be,
How the Ball-Point was born.
"This is way Better!" People would say
And now - the New Century - is still
Used today.


And because of it,
Production was born
In Business, Literary and most
Of all - Journalism
Was so Progressive.


And so this ends,
This Tale of the Happy Ballpen.
Of Friend's in-take,
Which is needed much in the Open.

Ikaw yung mangga at ako ang bagoong
pero asin ang gusto mo
Ikaw yung papel at ako ang ballpen
pero lapis ang hanap mo
Ikaw yung medyas at ako ang sapatos
pero tsinelas ang kailangan mo

Ikaw yung mahal ko at ako ang nandito
pero siya ang mahal mo

Ngayon at okay na ako..

Ako na yung bagoong na kayang ipares sa iba na gugustuhin ako

Ako na yung ballpen na pang permanate na hindi na muling ipagpapalit pa

Ako na yung sapatos na mamahalin at kakailangan ng iba

Ako na yung tapos na sa'yo at kaya nang mahalin ang sarili nang higit pa

I still listen to music with words
When I am writing words

Sunlight streams through the window
Trees sway outside, with branches scratching the glass window
-
I smell fresh coffee beans
Starbucks, from the Philippines

A piece of paper flutters down
I look at it with a frown.
-
And one thing I suddenly recall,
It gives me an idea, a reason to stall

From what I am doing, (hummingbird mind, my friend.)
And I went into an imaginary glen.

With only my pen and my notes
For company, then my mind began to float.


He wrote in the most perfect handwriting
Compared to my scatterbrained black scribbling

He strummed a chord on my heartstrings
Without him even knowing


His name sounded like
the gold-tipped wings
of angels.
While mine sat on the
brown earth,
dreaming to the skies.


Though, once we'd meet once a week
And I would smile in the hallways
looking like a freak

There was always something idiotic
the way his teeth stuck out like a bunny's
He reminded me of Ishaan from Taare Zameen Par
A dyslexic student, great artist, had a smile so sunny.


I'm playing Owl City on my mp3
That's our secret anthem

Tears were there
The melody from the speakers
I wished I could've sat beside you
When your fingers waltzed over the black-and-white keys
Now I'm sitting all alone by myself
Tapping on black-and-white letters on the Mac


Even though I play the violin
I can't accompany you
My bow screeching against the strings
Just doesn't do your mesmerising piano justice

What I can only do is write
And draw with a cheap ballpen from a meeting hall
I will draw your eyes and your crooked grin.
And my dreams of you that remain unfulfilled.

I finish the poem
Rip the page out of my notebook
And tape it to the wall with my other works
and newspaper clippings, oh just look.

Tomorrow I take it down again
Slip it into an envelope
Wonder if I should buy a stamp.
Maybe mail it overseas with forlorn hope.

A month passes by,
The envelope gathers dust under my bed.
Oh my darling, oh my darling
The chances with you are hanging by a thread

We're going to fly back home once more
So I decide to get you a keepsake from here.
A wooden owl, carved by hand
I slip the poem inside, thinking what you'd think when it appears…

Sometimes i thought and want to hide 
Somewhere 
Where you can't see me
I want to fly,fly,fly, far away from you

Im just an extraordinary ink of a pen
Im only a poet that doesn't know where my feelings go
A stubborn poet

I dont have friends
And im all alone

But i don't regret any of that

Cause there's my ballpen that i can still write
I still have my paper to where i can insert and spread my wings 
I still have you
My poet
That i can share
That i can talk
That i can learn
And that i can call
My only poet,
Thanks for being there.

Wordless? Could I write a  poem with silence?
the skid-slide of the road
the burden of a sudden night on me

Sometimes, I fall asleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand
little book open... it may seem so lovely
look at her!
huddled up with her little thoughts
a true writer, that child!
but- but I preferred sleep!
sleep was pleasurable and it did not run
I preferred pleasure to poetry, madam!
please take the label back

But...
sometimes the pen runs out of ink
and the ballpen stutters
and I get teary-eyed in the dark night
I engrave the paper with the ballpen nib
trace the words out in the morning
sometimes I tear the paper with the ballpen nib
and then weep

Sometimes, like this time, the lamp dies
I press the buttons of the AC remote
every four seconds (I counted)
write in the light of its lit-up screen
Sometimes I write on my hand
and when the hand runs out, I go to the arm
I write on pants, on tissue-paper pieces
Sometimes, there is light and pen and ink and...
and you know exactly what.

I could never call myself a poet
the word stuck, a jumble-mess
of all my literary inadequacies
rolled up to hardness, taped to throat
I... I roll up like a cat or a rug
words come by on a conveyer belt
and I stamp each with 'unoriginal'
unoriginal, unoriginal
a moving queue of unoriginal
so many words! the page is empty
I become unoriginal
other times...
so little words (like this time)! the page is full
I become unoriginal
Then I get so upset, I toss poetry away
like crumpled paper, roll over on the bed
an upset lover; I keep an arm back though
for some little touch


Oh my
I think I'm going to sleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand


Or maybe...


No, put it away
we are done for the night

she keeps her options open
but she keeps her heart closed
she writes your name with a ballpen
but she tells you to tattoo hers