Lumipas na ang mga araw
Kasabay nito ang ating alaala
Ngunit hindi pa rin mawala wala
Ang iyong imahen sa aking isipan
Matang nakakaakit,
Labing mapula,
Magagandang ngiti,
At boses na napakasarap pakinggan
Lahat ng ito'y gustong makita't maranasan muli
Ngunit ako'y naguguluhan,
Tama bang naisin ko lahat ng ito
Kung ako naman ang lumayo.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
Lulubog ang araw
Maaalala kang muli
Alaala natin'y babalik
Na para bang kahapon lang lahat ng nangyari.
Habang nakatitig sa langit,
Sa buwan at bituin
Ika'y andito sa puso't isipan
hindi na maalis
Sa bawat oras na lumilipas
Lungkot saya ang nararamdaman
Ngingiti, Luluha
Dahil sa alaala nang nakaraan
At sa paglitaw ng Araw
Panandalian kang makakalimutan
Ngunit sa muling paglubog nito
Andito ka ulit, sa puso't isipan.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
We danced toward
each other's wounds
with gentle step
and touched inside
and now the bleeding
has resumed
and all this blood
is hard to hide.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
I am shouting your name
giving all of my voice
just you to hear me
But I forgot
you are too busy
by shouting someone's name
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
She wants to be with you,
but she enjoys being alone
She doesn't want you to latch on her,
but she hates it when you talk to somebody else
She wants you to trust her,
Yet she cant tell her secrets
She only wants to be understood,
but she is clueless of herself
Everything will be okay, she yelled
It is messed up, she whispered.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC