MICHELLE CRUZADO LAGUMAY: Poems

Itay

MICHELLE CRUZADO LAGUMAY May 2019

Itay

Kung pano tayo nahantong dito ay hindi ko alam.
Sa kung paano natuwid ang paa at sa kung pano unti unting nalagot ang yong hininga.
Hindi ko alam kung pano ko nakayang halikan ang iyong kamay habang ikaw ay nakaratay at walang malay.
Hindi ko alam kung pano ko kinayang patigilin ang luhang umaagos sa mga mata habang pinapanood kang hirap na hirap huminga.

Hindi ko alam kung ano ako ngayon habang pinagmamasdan ang pikit **** mga mata.
Hindi ko alam pano ko tatanggaping ang aking nagsilbing ama ay wala na.

Unti unting tumigil ang paggalaw ng paligid ko, sa loob ng apat na sulok ng silid mo,
Unti unti akong nabingi sa mga hagulgol ng pamilyang nagmamahal sayo,
Habang pinagmamasdan ko ang huling pagkumpas ng mga kamay mo, ang paputol putol **** paghinga, at ang unti unting paglabo ng yong mga mata.

Hinahanap hanap nang tainga ko, ang patawag mo sa pangalan ko. Ang mga pagtatampo mo kapag hindi ako dumadaan sa bahay mo. Ang pagtawag mo ng madaling araw kapag kaarawan ko. Ang mga tugtog mo. Ang pagtawa mo sa mga jokes ko. Mamimiss ko ang mga yakap mo.

Ikaw ang umakay sa musmos kong puso at nagpaliwanag kung ano ba ang buhay.
Ikaw ang kakampi sa lahat ng bagay.
Ikaw ang nagturo kung pano magbilang, at sumagot sa assignment kong 1 plus 1.

Hindi ko alam kung paano ko tatanggapin,
Na sa mga susunod na araw ika'y hindi ko na kapiling.
Kaya kung saan ka man naroroon, ito sana ay baunin,
Itay, mahal kita mula noon at sa habang panahon.
Salanat sa mga alaala, bagamat may poot mas lamang naman ang galak,
Bagamat ang iba ay lumuluha, mas madami pa rin ang tumatawa.
Salamat itay, itay paalam na.

#itay

Nonsense

MICHELLE CRUZADO LAGUMAY Dec 2018

Nonsense

I am a blankhead writer. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I used to sell my 1000 words of claptrap for a one dollar bill to the low market publishers in town for a hopeless living. I used to walk on the busy street of Metropolis looking for job-flyers. I was scammed, robbed, snatched and been kidnapped. I even been tortured to death but managed to survive. I am a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself  brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact.  I am a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw  emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind.  Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt   along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.

I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.

— The End —