Maaaring nagsisinungaling ang mga makata.
Nalilimutan ko na ang tunog ng iyong tawa.
Pinipilit maalala ang iyong tinig sa tuwina.
Tulungan mo akong maalala.
Baka nga sinungaling ang makata.
Inuukit sa isip ang mga salitang binitawan.
Binabaybay sa tula, binubuo sa iyong wika.
Tulungan mo akong gunitain ka.
Baka nga isang krimen ang sumulat ng tula.
Kada letra ay lenggwaheng naglalakbay,
Kada pahina ay anod na di matatangay.
Tulungan mo akong lumutang.
Baka nga kriminal ang maging makata.
Nalulunod sa tinta ng pagkalumbay,
sa ilalim ng alon ng paghihintay.
Tulungan mo akong tumula.

Imagine having me stretched, throbbing,
a touch that could soothe and ****.
Yes, it both can.
Your greatest ****.
You simply won’t be able to imagine
just how good it would feel.
No, you just can’t.
Good ******* luck...

The original
The mother pearl of the orient
The mother church
The noble and ever-loyal
A poem in my mother tongue
Songs and dances in yours
People were dying here all the time
Now there are weddings, there’s even a line
People were shooting each other dead
Now there are kisses and laughters shared
López de Legazpi’s lego house
Joaquin’s literary muse
By sword and fire
By the walls of surprise
“But, Manila?!”
For the city we love to hate
And "Ahh, Manila..."
For the city we hate to love
There used to be blood splattered
brains scattered on the cobblestones
And until we’ll walk these streets together
hearts will be shattered in these cold walls
My home, sweet and hot and spicy Manila
Soon yours, darling lover
Through storms of desire
By my walls broken down in sight
My fortress, my quiet night
This is the Manila I want you to see
This is the postcard I want to send with glee
By sword and fire, here, I proclaim you mine
By these walls so high, I crawl, wait, and cry

And this is why I’m not an actress.
I enjoy the behind-the-scenes, all their mess.
But it was never my forte to pretend.
This is why I’m a writer.
I create chaos and horrors only on paper.
Between play and pretend, I pick the former.
And maybe this is why I’m not popular.
I simply love my privacy and personal cellar.
Be in the dark, adore the closed doors.
This is why I’m only a poet.
If I should fit your mould, God forbid.
And this is why I wish to remain unknown.
If I must kneel before you, I’d just go home.
And this is precisely why I’m not an actress.
I’m already in so much burden and stress.
I’m a poet, for christ’s sake!
Oh, I could also be fake!
Ah, but I’d rather eat my popcorn,
sit within my pretty little bubble,
while honing my tiny horns,
causing no silly troubles.

If you were to become sand,
I would not be just some hands.
Not even another mortal homeland.
I will become time, I will weather and stand.
But if you were to become an island,
I would not be just some beach or sands.
Not even a firefly or a wasp that lands.
I will become a tree that withstands.
Or if you will be the time, I will be a tree.
Together in our tiny little island,
we will be gleaming and free,
we will be holding hands.

When I say my words are powerful,
I mean it could both be
for the worse or for better.
When I say my words are heavy,
I meant it for hurting, rolling punches
or for lifting and helping hands.
When I say my words could ****, I mean it.
No wordplays or metaphors needed.
If I say my words feels like kiss, I mean it.
I know how to wield them in battlefield,
I know how to write with them for poetry.
So when I say my words are powerful,
I mean it could both be
for the worst or for the best.
So for you my darling lover,
or prospective enemy,
what’s it gonna be?
So here’s to you, my chosen, my love,
or potential slave and loyal servant,
who do you want to be for me?

I can carve your name among the stars
with my paper, pen, acrylics, and art.
I can turn you into a museum
through my own pain, sadness, and gloom.
I can display you like a gallery,
with my lips and hips seared onto your skin.
I can raise your name into immortality
through my songs and poetry.
I can give you eternity
with my madness and mercy.
I can make you a living God
through my beauty and love.