Where could it be?
Where is this taking me?
My hopes are anything but high.
My ink for poetry is running dry.
Where is my one horse running off to?
Where exactly is the end of the rainbow?
I keep searching and screaming for it.
I keep yearning and yelling for this.
Still, it could be me and you.
Still, despite the shades of blue.
The last nugget of gold that I will rush to.
The last star that's burning in the metro.
This city ain't big enough for both of us,
but your room might just be.
There ain't room for both of us in this town,
but in my bed there might just be.

But do you know that all of these takes time?
That you simply can't just wake up good?
That this is one thing you can't do online?
That this is more than wearing boots?
But do you know how much time is mine?
That you might wanna share perhaps?
But do you know how long must I ride?
Before you enter the arena and do laps?
But do you know that all of these takes time?
That even the greatest cowboy can fall?
That if you think it could be anywhere,
could it possibly be on my bed or hall?
Do you know that it takes hell of a practice?
But then if it's the art of cantering,
my body is but one masterpiece,
you are a renaissance artist.
But if a horse is poetry in motion,
your legs writes classic novels
I don't wish to ever end.
And if this little tryst is all but a play,
then we better make it worthwhile
do it best more than a playwright.

The more I ride, the more he fades away
and the more he blurs when it's a rainy day.
The more I trot, the less he catches on
and the lesser he gets my prized attention.
Because the more we run on the field,
the more I breathe, live and feel.
Because the more we canter out and about,
the less I feel the worries, fears and doubts.
But you are the vast lands that I will uphold,
you are the range of mountains with golds.
You are the trail that the champions follow,
you are where families will bloom and grow.
You are my Olympus and achilles' heel,
he's just the dirt on my boots.
You are my final will and death hill,
he's just another old saloon.

Ang wikang nanlaban,
ay ang wikang nanatili.
Ang wikang di nag-atubili,
ay ang wikang nagwagi.
Ang wika ng mga matatapang,
ay ang wikang di maaagawan.
Ang wikang awitin ng araw
at ang wikang tula ng buwan.
Ang wikang harana ng habagat
at ang wikang isinulat ng dagat.
Ang wikang ibinaybay ng alon
at ang wikang di aanurin ng baybay.
Ang wikang sinambit ng mga ninuno
na kailanman ay di mamamatay.
Ang wikang ginamit ng mga bayani
na habambuhay nang mamamalagi.
Ang wikang matapang,
ang wika ko magpasawalang-hanggan.

If the green waves in Siargao
and the blue swells in La Union
could meet somewhere and speak,
what would they talk about?
In what language, even?
Ilocano? Bisaya? Tagalog? Español?
Or perhaps the better question is;
what would they 𝘯𝘰𝘵 talk about?
If the waters of Siargao could introduce itself
to the northwest wind of La Union,
I think,
they would create waves more gigantic
than Bondi or Nazare.
And if the eastern Pacific wind of Siargao
kiss the West Philippine Sea beside La Union,
I believe,
they would cause tsunami bigger than Japan's.
The waves would be bigger than anywhere else,
together they would be the best.
Or they could be the worst.
And so God willed La Union in the northwest,
and Siargao further down south in Mindanao.
And so they could not speak, meet and kiss...

At kung napapagal ka na sa haba ng lakbay,
nababagot sa buhay o kawalan nitong taglay,
kung hapong-hapo ka na sa alon ng lumbay,
hayaan **** hayaan kitang dumaong,
pumarito ka sa aking baybay,
pumarada ka at pumatong.
𝘠 𝘥𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘦,
𝘣𝘢𝘫𝘰 𝘮𝘪 𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘰.
𝘠𝘰 𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘳é 𝘱𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘪, 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳é 𝘵𝘶 𝘤𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘰
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰𝘴.
Kung napapagod ka na sa tagal ng byahe,
mananatili ba o muling mag-iimpake?
Kung nalilito saan nga ba patungo,
sa dako kaya rito, o dako roon?
Hayaan **** hayaan kitang huminto.
Pumara ka, papalapit, pumarito.
𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘢 𝘺 𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘢 𝘵𝘶 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦ó𝘯,
𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘴
𝘺 𝘮𝘪 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢.
𝘚𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘦 𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘻𝘢,
𝘵𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳é 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴 𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘴.

Maybe I don't wanna be better?
If your definition of "better" is to risk
this spark of joy and trade it
for pangs of burn and bouts of pain,
then maybe I don't wanna be better.
My darling dear,
life is already painful as it is.
Maybe I wanna surf where it wouldn't hurt?
And if being around
other hurt surfers would,
I'd very much fancy riding the waves alone,
catch a break or break down on my own,
so I wanna surf where it wouldn't hurt.
My north wind,
reality cuts deeper than reefs.
Maybe I wanna stay in the shallow?
If your depth is where I could lose myself,
yet again, and break my back,
skin and bones
and swim back to shore
or drift lifeless alone,
then maybe I just wanna stay in the shallow.
My grand sea,
love should not hurt and bleed.