hindi naman ako isang makata.
ang pluma at isip ko’y di nagtutugma.
oo. minsan ay pinipilit kong bilangin ang mga letra
at pinipilipit ang utak sa isang salitang nasa dulo na ng aking dila.
ngunit, hindi ako isang makata.
hindi ako katulad ng mga nakikita mo sa mga libro
wala akong galing na kayang ipahiwatig ang mga salita sa magagarbong paraan
hindi maipalalabas ng pluma ko na ang pinakakinakatakot **** bagay...
isang rosas na kahit maganda’y kukurutin ang balat mo hanggang ika’y magkasugat at magdugo
hindi ako isang makata.
ang mga luha ko man ay sunod sunod na
at ang plumang hawak-hawak ko ay dumudulas na
gusto pa rin ilabas ng puso ko ang mga salitang naiisip nito:
“Ito ang tulang hindi bebenta.”
ito ang tulang hindi mo makikita sa papel na may pahina
ito ang tulang hindi mo pagaaksayahan ng pera
ito ang tulang hindi mo tatapusin basahin
ito ang tulang hindi mo aaralin
walang bilang ang mga linya at walang tugma ang mga salita
walang magagarbong salitang kailangan mo pang hanapin ang kahulugan
walang mababangong linya na tatatak sa’yong isipan
walang pangalan na agad agad **** matatandaan
hindi ba’t sinabi ko na sa iyo? ito ang tulang hindi bebenta.
bakit ba binabasa mo pa rin?
sinasayang mo lang oras mo.
sabagay, salamat na rin.
salamat sa oras mo.
pasasalamatan kita sa bilis **** pagtingin
pasasalamatan kita sa muntikan **** paglalim
ng pagiisip para intindihan ang tulang hindi bebenta
pero hahayaan mo ako
hahayaan mo ako na ituloy ang tulang ito
hahayaan mo ako na ilabas ang damdamin ko
hahayaan mo ako na hawakan pa rin ang pluma
hahayaan mo ako na magsulat at sumaya
kahit alam kong hindi mo babasahin
dahil natutunan ko nang pasayahin ang sarili ko
sa mga munting laro at paglikha ng mga istorya
na humuhukay ng isang malalim na bangin
natutunan ko nang tabunan ito uli ng lupa
gamit ang pluma na mauubos na ang tinta
pagkatapos ay didiligan ko ito gamit ang aking luha
hanggang sa unti-unting tubuan ito ng bunga
siguro sa pagdating ng panahon mayroon mang makakita...
mababasa niya ito ngunit hindi niya maiintindihan.
at mailalagay ito si isang museo
at pilit itong iintindihin
dahil kaibigan, ang mga pinakalumang bagay
kahit wala nang gamit
ay minsan ding nagkaroon ng halaga
kaya kaibigan, tinatapos ko na.
tinatapos ko na ang huling tula na hindi bebenta.
Non-sense I make at 1AM. Holds a lot of meaning.
Let's start at the very beginning
Brown skin. Flat nose. Short.
I was a free land for you to take.
For once I was in glee.
Until you had me taken and used.
You have forgotten who you are.
A blank page. A mystery.
Who were you really?
White skin. Pointed Nose. Tall.
A variety of people I didn't recognize.
You welcomed them while some fought with blood.
This is what you've done.
You have sold who you are.
The never-ending battle.
The battle within oneself.
You told yourself you are free.
There are no battles, no blood, no freedom.
You have forgotten what freedom is.
There are battles. There is blood.
Yet you have chosen to close your eyes.
Is this the love you have proclaimed for me?
You have helped no one with your steels and wood.
You freed yourselves from the dictator.
But there is still no peace at hand.
You all drown from the deep flood.
Yet you'd rather race each other to the shore.
Haven't you realized? You are not in the sea.
You are not at land either.
At least not ours.
You step at our muddy lands yet your mind is far from home.
You scrub your skin until its white.
To you, your skin is dirt.
Across the land, some eyes are red.
Their hands are rough with dirt,
clutching unto a plastic that smells.
It dives unto their minds and they smiled.
I wasn't able to protect them when you saw them with a bullet in their heads.
Mothers and Fathers that I raised
Have left me and you as well
To be able to put zero's in your wallets
They fight with their hands so rough
You. For you. But what about me? How about me?
It's an unending cycle of a triangular shape.
You fall. I fall. Some rise.
You all have lost hope and wish to leave me so soon.
Is this really who you are?
Will I never find who I truly am?
An empty page.
The writer of the book grew tired.
He didn't continue— or he never got to.
No one really knew.
The page was not there.
Ripped like a masterpiece.
A painting of blood along its back.
I am an open book, ready for anyone to read.
Yet you have flipped me close and left me to fill with dust.
You have left me on the bookshelf
and slept in a locked room.
Something for my country.
i didn't understand
how my back was curved like a spoon all the time
how my breath stops at the eyes upon me
how my voice stops to be heard at their stares
i was jealous
their stance, the way they held their chins up high
their never-ending smiles and laughs and talks
their wits, never stopping to think, always ready
i am stuck in my own world
not because they told me to
because i have to
someone has to yield
someone has to be the clapper
someone has to watch
someone has to be inferior
that's my role in this world
i will never be—
never be the.
along the way of the journey,
you held my hand and kissed me.
we walked till our feet were planted blisters,
just two people stuck together.
the long distance we have taken,
made me see you again.
and in a shining new light i feel you,
as the walk gets harder to go through.
early in the morning one day,
the sun pointed at you with its ray.
you shined so bright,
and i knew that it felt right— you felt right.
al th ea, your name is not.
— The End —