Like roses are destined to dry,
I too deserve to be free
from expectations so mighty and high.

Like lilies will begin to wilt,
I too lay my palms open for another
sisterhood and kinship killed.

Like daisies are promised doom,
I too swear to grow everywhere
like mere and measly mushrooms.

Like carnations will clump and crumble,
I too let go of my rains and storms
and let it all out like a thunder’s rumble.

When the hues of red turns purple,
that’s when you drink the wine.
When music is anything but loud,
that’s when you know it’s time.
Like prickly thorns must kiss
the tender petals goodbye.
Like little spiders must bid
their web of safety farewell.
Red to blue to yellow then white,
that’s when you wave and smile.
Loud to mellow to static then blank,
that’s your cue to go and never look back.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦,
𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴”
Nature begs to be written,
walked over, talked about.
As beauty, art, landscapes,
birds, seascapes, also does.
No, they need to be spoken about,
sung hymns to, screamed atㅡsometimes.
And I would indeed stop and smell;
the roses, the sampaguitas,
admire and be awe-struck over
the lilies, the gumamelas,
even as they rot and dry away.
Even as I forget to eat, like a bad day.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬,
𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴”
Betrayal is part of human nature,
at this point and at this big age,
I suppose there is an equally
big truth in that. And much pain to boot.
And I suppose, too, I need to begin
to learn how to enjoy it.
Because betrayal too, has been
enjoying toying with me.
How do I write poems about it though?
Where do I even begin?
Probably with this:
“We used to be the best of friends,
but we were never each other’s
****** wedding guests.”

It's April now and my skin is still as white
as the paper in which I whisper and write.
It hurts.
I want to see your face again.
It's summer now and my heart is still as cold
as if I'm another slave successfully sold.
It stings.
I want to hear your laugh again.
It's April now and my body is still as stiff
as a branch of a tree below a mountain cliff.
It burns.
I want to be with you again.
It's summer now yet it's winter in my soul
as if I know how winter feels, I'm a fool.
But it's cool.
I just want to see your face again.

A Manileña doesn’t mince her words.
She doesn’t sweeten up the bitter truth.
A Filipina’s words strike like a sword.
She would get down and ***** to the roots.
She could sing like an angel, easily join a heavenly choir.
But she could curse the devil, make him quiver and cry.
She could recite poems and prayers,
think of you during novena and death alike.
But she could also write your eulogy,
hold a funeral for you while you’re still alive.

My words shoot when provoked,
my poems heal when deserved.
My quill could ****,
my sword are my words.
My mouth could bring drought,
spit that could send you down to pits.

And even when I hate,
it’s out of care and love.
I know I’ll never lose a war.
And when I don’t feel the best,
I simply breathe, read, and take a rest.
And I write poetry, you can never **** or defeat me.

It’s up to youㅡwhat’s it gonna be?
You write and decide, should I heal or ****?

You’re right.
I do not take rejection well.
For I take rejection sea.
I float and swim in it until I’m free.
I dive in it until I feel opposite of glee.
You’re correct.
I do not take “no” graciously.
For instead of grace, I become the sea.
I slap the shore until my blue turns green.
I blow my waves into squares as I scream.
That’s right.
When I lose, I never use it as a noose.
Instead I sizzle and heat up like a fuse,
smile like a muse, call ******* on truce,
win and govern all your lands like Zeus.
That’s correct.
When I’m denied, I show that I can bite.
I show teeth and they sparkle bright,
tell them I am not as frail as a kite,
I am the moon on a star-free sky at night.

But what is spring breeze,
if not absence of a kiss?
If summer is hot and torrid,
spring is lacking indeed.
If spring is but a tease,
summer comes with ease.
If summer brings the true wind,
spring only hides want and need.