There is a poem I want to write
but can’t seem to begin to.
It’s just hanging over my head,
like a bounty of million.
It’s been bugging me,
like a fly buzzing.
I’m running out of good rhymes,
as you’re running out of time.
I am sorry, I am grateful.
I only wanted to know how you’re doing.
I just want us to be friends now, forever.
Take some of these sweets,
some baked goodies with familiar names.
They might taste a bit different,
perhaps the fruits will, too,
because they’re kissed by the warmer sun.
But I could pick more for you,
if you should want.
But I will try to stay on my side of the field.
I will stay under my shade at the beach.
If I could have last five feelings,
I would save them all for you.
If tomorrow I could be a ceiling,
I want to be in your room.
For the last time, I’m sorry.
I only wanted to know how you’re doing.
I just want us to be friends now, forever.

If peace is at north
and war is at south,
but you are in the east
and I’m in the west,
I would choose to go north.
But if my heart is at sea
and your hand is on fire,
if my papers and letters are ashes
and my poetry discarded in a sack,
I would burn to touch and take your hand.

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.

“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.”

I think, you have to be a **** *******.
**** the rules, of course. Forget the very word.
And run.
And ride.
And hide.
You have to avoid everyone and everything.
Avoid every unfamiliar feeling.
Avoid unfamiliar anything.
And run some more.
You have to curse better than a sailor can.
You have to stop thinking and dreaming about the sea.
You do not belong there, you are not feeling the ocean breeze.
And ride. Keep on riding.
Debunk every myth about you, with a worse news.
Dismiss every drunken enemy, with a bullet or a dime.
Defy the unknown and the unexplored by riding until you fly.
And ride some more.
And when it gets too good, be worse than ever.
And be the worst when you find the best.
And ride and hide and ride.
That's how to be the best cowboy there ever is.
And I am well on my way to be that.
I am well on my way to be just that!

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.

A for another flight soon?
A for akala mo yata nagbibiro ako...
A for alphabet
B for Buena Suerte
B for borrowed time
B for Buenavista
C for conyo
C for Con Hielo
D for Drowning (in El Nido)
D for Do not drink the tap water (in El Nido)
D for something I really need now
E for Erceflora
E for El Nido
F for Five Feelings
F for **** this ****
G for God please, allow me to go to
Guimaras
G for God’s Eyes
G for gago ka ba?!
H for Hand
H for Horses
H for Homebody
I for Iloilo
I for
I for I will get back to you soon
J for Jordan
J for Jollibee Jaro (Iloilo)
K for
K for kakasabi mo lang, babawiin mo agad?!
K for
L for low tide
L for La Union... again?!
L for loanwords
M for Mangoes

S for skipping to S
S for something sweet
S for summer summer summer!
T for tangina, tagal!
T for tag-init

Behold this box in which I carry my secrets.
If I ask you, would you be able to keep it?
Behold this case in which I kept my youth.
If I answer this poem, will it make the due?
Here lies all that there is or ever was...
If I would try to, could I make it last?
Here comes all that will come or will be...
If I fight for you, would I end up bruised?
Behold this ring which I’ll kiss with fists.
If I duel with time, could you give me a kiss?
Behold this arena in which I will be boxed.
I will brawl with pain, leave me knocked.

When she could bring the sun and fun
after surviving rains and pain,
that’s so tropical!
When she dances with the storms,
sings with the winds and their howls,
that’s so pacific!
When she steps out smelling like the ocean,
smiling, looking like the sunset,
she’s so tropical!
When she writes poetry out of tragedies,
takes lyrics and proses from calamities,
that’s so pacific!
When she smells like coconuts and mangoes
after cutting off people and letting them go,
oh, how tropical!
When she sways along with the palm trees,
instead of sulking down on her knees,
that’s so pacific!
The sun and storms,
the rains and fun,
the dances and the winds,
ah, how tropical!
The oceans, the calamities,
the tragedies, the poetry,
the coconuts, the people,
the mangoes, the palm tress,
so, so, tropical!

So many plans, too little time.
So many faces, only one in my mind.
So many hands, is holding yours a crime?
So many places, but yours is the gold mine.
Too much things to do,
when should I schedule you?
Too many appointments made,
when are you asking me on a date?
So many dates in the calendar,
when’s the day you’ll be my groom?
So much to lose like racing cars,
tell me when exactly is the day of doom?
But I have so much love to give,
yet there's reality to live!
And we have a lot to grieve,
yet why do I still believe?
There used to be a brain where my head is,
now it can’t be saved by a broom.
"There was a sane and stable woman here,
if lost, find her in the emergency room."

Si quieres volver a hablar conmigo,
tengo las puertas abiertas de par en par.
Ya te lo dije, eres más que bienvenido,
incluso puedes usar mis chanclas.

Si quieres discutir conmigo otra vez,
lucha conmigo en un duelo cara a cara.
No me has dicho lo que sientes,
pero te estás enamorando poco a poco.

Si tienes algo que decir,
háblalo como un adulto, ven a mi entresuelo.
No tengo que decirte qué hacer,
pero ven aquí y te diré que eres mi sueño.

Si tienes algo que quieras hacer,
enfréntate a mí, o enfrenta tus miedos primero.
Y no tienes que decirme qué decir,
puedo decírtelo en siete idiomas, mi amor.

The northwestern wind writes, "what's taking you so long?"
My microwave hums, "at least you've got a business"
The pacific waves of Baler calls me, "come back"
My new parcel's sticker says "do not fold"

The sun dances in hiding
My days dwindling

The monsoon breeze makes noise, "it's never gonna happen"
My fridge buzzes anew, "whatever the **** that was"
The distant dream of Siargao, "I'm in timeout"
My pile of books jokes, "that was a dream."

The clouds sings in poems
My time is thinning

The rolling eastern storms teases, "can't you see it's killing me?"
My turntable curses itself nightly, "get a new job or else"
The sweet kisses of Urbiztondo, "well I'd rather not"
My shell earrings whispers, "but what if?"

The moon stays writing
My nights fading

Mother queen bee,
I wish you knew that your skin color
is the subject of envy
of women in the west and more!

The way the sun glows over your skin,
it’s nothing like they’ve ever seen!
The way I want to have your color every summer,
I’m sure this is something you’ve never heard before!

Mother dear,
I wish you knew that your skin is the honey,
that the baby bees need to be near,
and to have your color, other people would spend money!

The way your eyes and skin shines golden,
there’s nothing about you tthat I would change!
Like the way flowers bloom beautifully in the garden,
the bees says yes, the butterflies would nod in agreement!

No.
Stop, darling.
I don’t want love confessions in the rain.
I fancy them in movie scenes,
not so much in reality, it seems.
It is late March now,
summer’s coming around.
If I should ever want a love confession in the rain from you,
that would take about three to four months from now, that’s cruel.
Way too long.
No. No. Stop it, honey.
Anyway I never cared about my life looking like a movie.
I’m saying, if you wanna say something,
then hurry!
I prefer kissing in the sunset because we just can’t help it,
than melodramatic yearning in the rain and we’re both wet.
If I should want a love confession from you,
I want it in summer here,
enough time has passed and I’ve been kind, don’t you think so, dear?
No. No. No!
Stop right there, my love.
In June, it will be rainy, lonely, drab
and dull here again.
Should I wait and ask for another six months: “God, when?”
When?
When?
I don't want love confessions in the rain.
Come here, darling.
Go.

I’m running out of metaphors.
In that sense, ‘metaphors’ is a metaphor
for your time, not mine.
And you’re running out of good years.
In that sense, ‘good years’ is a metaphor
for your options, also not mine.
I wanted to be the one to make you happy,
I wanted you to be the subject of my poetry.
But what else can a woman like me do?
I am a little girl in front of a man like you.
What gift do you get a guy
who seem to have it all?
Where do you take a man
who’s been everywhere?
What song can you sing
to someone who’s heard every sound?
What else can you give
to somebody who’s done it all?
What poem can I write for you,
that will make you want to choose me?
And what can you do to impress
a person who’s been with everyone?

Silence.
Nowhere.
Static.
Nothing.
Blank page.
Radio silence.

Est-ce ce que font les vrais hommes?
Ils répondent et font preuve de clarté.
Est-ce ce que font les vrais amoreux?
Ils expriment et montrent leur vulnérabilité.
Je fredonne:
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que dois-je faire?
Que doit faire une vraie femme?
Que doit faire un vrai amoreux?
Mais quel choix ai-je?
Quel autre choix ai-je?
Est-ce que c'est ce que font les vrais hommes?
Il revient, clairement.
Est-ce ce que fait un vrai amant?
Il exprime son amour, avec vulnérabilité.
Maintenant, je sais quoi chanter;
Je prie pour savoir ce que je fais.

Maybe you will see through history.
You will find that this is how things used to be.
Maybe it's really supposed to be me, honestly.
Things only got in order, cleaned up the corners.
Maybe this is for the best, and it shall be, no wonder.
The streets that you thought you knew is not all that is.
Maybe it's not me and you, but could I still give you a kiss?
The city doesn't intend to take more, but to give, please believe.
Our city sheds tears daily for weeks.

Maybe you will get enough of reality.
You will see that there is paradise in the urbanity.
Maybe we were meant to be apart so we could listen to our hearts.
Things would only get messier, but I will be crazier.
Maybe I got the right tools to help you feel better.
The city is not after you, it won't drown or drain you out.
Maybe my letters are futile, you are who the scripture is about.
The city is for ours to reign in, or you could come when it's raining.
Our city bleeds weekly for months.

Maybe you will read through my poetry.
You will get in between my metaphors and subtleties.
Maybe you're supposed to show me how to write.
Things would be better if certain things didn't happen.
Maybe it's all part of a bigger plan, who's holding the pen?
The city that my children will be running in is one we can't hate.
Maybe there's reason and logic for everything, even when it's late.
The city will be the witness, in my arms is where it's warmest.
Our city will no longer cry and bleed for years.

But what would you need from me?
Somebody who have heard every sound there is to hear,
What made you make the far journey over here?
You, who have walked cities I could only imagine now,
touched every sand, swam in every sea, basked in snow.
You, who have seen faces that I only see in paintings of oil,
laid your eyes on all shades of gold, coal, savored every soil.

But what could you want from me?
Somebody who seems to have everything,
what made you think I have something to offer a king?
You, who have riches that my people can't even dare to dream,
all the grains and flavors, of spices and silver, how they all gleam!
You, who have the finest of things, how life blessed you abundant,
all the valleys, jewels, oceans, rings, what more could you want?

But what else could I give you but ancient wisdom?
I am but an unnamed island, air kisses of breeze and palm trees.
I could not give you anything else but brand new calm and peace.
Poor little me, who only have plentitude of the sweetest of fruits,
the second best I could give you is my loyalty and truth.
Poor little me, I would only hurt and drown you with my tears,
they call me 'best' even from the west, but I only have seas of fears.

And what could an island be worth to a kingdom?
I am an uncouth, unknown maiden in front of imperial princesses.
I could not be your place of politics, you can't even build palaces.
Little old me, who only have endemic flowers of newer colors,
it is best to go your merry way, forget about my warm summers.
Little old me, I would only scare you with my quakes and storms,
don't write to me from home, simply leave me desolate and forlorn.

You bring so much to the table
and mine's only good for two,
it's so tiny, that sometimes
I eat while standing, too.

Now I'm not really nice,
but with you I am just naturally submissive.
And you're holding the dice,
we're not playing games, but the rules are subjective.

You bring so much to the table
and I only brought a picnic mat,
it's a shame, what could I offer
if I'm just eating scraps, like a cat?

And I want to be your only or favorite vice,
I am ten toes down, I can't change my objective.
Or maybe I just want to be your constant, like rice.
I am a case and crime, come inspect me like a detective.

You bring so much to the table
and I do too, but are you even ready for our feast?
Would you come to the kitchen with me,
I am here waiting for you, won't you come to the east?

Ay isang pangungusap na hindi mo maiintindihan
at hindi ko rin maisasalin sa wikang alam nating dalawa.
Miski sa Ingles, ito'y tila katuwa-tuwa na;
"do you know how to walk on the rain?"
Kadalasan, walo sa sampung banyaga ang sasagot ng;
"what do you mean?"

Kayrami kong nais pang ibahagi sa'yo na mga pangungusap,
o kasabihan o ekspresyon o salawikain na hindi ko maisasalin,
ngunit para sa'yo, aking itutula o ilalarawan o ipapaliwanag,
itanong mo lamang, aking sinta, ipapaliwanag pati mga bituin.

Ngunit paano nga ba maglakad sa ulan?
Nang hindi natatalsikan ng putik ang puti kong binti?
Laging bantay ng mama kapag maulan: anak, ang talampakan!
Ngunit paano nga ba maglakad sa ulan?
Kung hindi lang kalsadang maputik, baha na ang lulusungin!
Ako na ngayon ang magtatanong: "what do you mean?"

Kayrami kong nais pang ibahagi sa'yo na mga pangungusap,
o kasabihan o ekspresyon o salawikain na hindi ko maisasalin,
ngunit para sa'yo, aking itutula o ilalarawan o ipapaliwanag,
itanong mo lamang, aking sinta, ipapaliwanag pati mga bituin.

Kung itatanong mo sa akin, giliw, kung natutunan ko na ba?
Kung paano nga ba maglakad sa ulan talaga?
Sasagutin kita ng hindi, at marahil hindi na ko matututo pa.
Mga binti kong gala ay pinagpabahala na ang alaga.
Hindi na ako nag-aalala sa putik at dumi at talsik.
Mga paa'y nakatikim na ng buhangin at iba pang bagsik.

Kayrami kong nais pang ibahagi sa'yo na mga pangungusap,
o kasabihan o ekspresyon o salawikain na hindi ko maisasalin,
ngunit para sa'yo, aking itutula o ilalarawan o ipapaliwanag,
itanong mo lamang, aking sinta, ipapaliwanag pati mga bituin.

And God forbid I get asked again,
"And what do you bring to the table?"
This time, my answer would be; "nothing!"
I have no worth without doing anyone favors,
I have no price without a pretty face,
I have no tags without brains,
I have no name without money,
I have no face without ***,
I have no place without favors.
I have no fame without sacrifices.
So leave me alone!
I don't even wish to sit at your table.
I don't even let myself dream about it.
Don't ask me no questions!
I don't even want to be in your vicinity.
I don't even want you back in my city.

But they would burn my mouth
before you could even kiss it.
Don’t you think it’s a blessing we’re alive now,
and at the same time, too? Say it.
But they would bury me alive
before I could make you believe.
Don’t you think it’s a curse that we’re aligned,
yet so far away at the same time? **** it.
But they would blast off my body
before you could even bless it.
They would brand my poetry as blasphemy
before I could read them to you under the exploding stars.
They would call me the devil and the witch
before I could even become your eternal love or divine scar.

Ah yes, I stopped asking and annoying the sun;
"what are his summer plans?"
Rains just started rolling, city thunders are singing;
"what about his homecoming?"
I can't even ask about his day
without subtly saying;
"are you almost on your way?!?"
so much for silent praying.
Ah but I don't care now what he does or where he goes,
the clouds are grey and cold, so is my little nose.
Storms are humming, pacific sun is in hiding, but teasing;
"okay, but I am not the one hiding something..."

If you could make me kneel
then I could make you believe
If you could *******
I could make you meet God.
Whatever you do to me,
I will do it back divinely.
If you treat me like an angel
then I could bring you heaven.
If you still couldn’t tell,
I could also give you the hell.
Everything you give me,
I will give you more generously.
If you could forget the world,
then I could grant forgiveness.
If you could forsake all riches,
I could welcome you to my kingdom.
Anything you offer me,
I will bless back with moon and stars.
If I could make you come
then I could make you believe.
If you could make me meet God,
then at your altar I could pray and kneel.

Today, I bought a new book.
I wanted to give it to you.
When I got home, I cursed myself.
I will cry myself to sleep.
I will dream and cry and curse
myself there, too.
I will write about nobody knows
how much I miss you.

If there is beauty in death,
there are hundred deaths in beauty.
If there is winning in suffering,
there are thousands of suffering to win.
Where is the red carpet to the exit door?
Is the way out the end all and be all?
Where is the limousine to forevermore?
Is winning truly at our beck and call?
Teach me how to say a graceful goodbye.
How do I make you read one more line?
Tell me a way to a more flawless farewell.
How do I make you come out of hell?
There is death in beauty,
suffering in winning,
winning over death,
death of suffering.

Can you almost feel the heat?
Tropical, as how the Pacific waves intended.
Can you almost touch my skin?
Static, just like how science intended.
The latitude got nothing
with how much attitude I'm having.
The whole world warned you
about women like me.
But I hope they also told you
about my divinity.
Come back home,
feel the warmth and love again.
Come to me, I'll be your church,
just let yourself be and believe again.
Can you almost ******* mouth?
Starving, as how the government wanted.
Can you almost feel my walls crashing?
Poetic, like how I wrote and wanted it.
The longitude is zero
compared to much I long for you.
Come back to me,
feel at home, until I'm your skin and bones.
Come before me,
be my church, I can pray for us both.
I can pray for us both.
I can pray for us both.
I can pray for us both.

Gaano kalaking karatula ang kailangan mo?
Para mabasa mo ang nakapaskil sa puso ko?
Ako ay isang siyudad kung saan kailangan
kong sabihin na wag akong apakan.
Ako ay isang babae lamang, kailangan
kong maging dagat para wag silaban.
Isang posteng tutumba sa isang kalabit,
patawad, ‘di mo ko kaibigan o kapatid.
Isang pader na tulugan ng mga kalapati,
pangarapin ko man, ‘di nila ako haligi parati.
Hindi ako ang pinangakong paraiso,
baka nga hindi rin ako naaalala ng Diyos.
Hindi ako ang magiging para sa’yo,
baka hindi rin ako magiging parausan mo.
Gaano kalaking plakard ang gusto mo?
Para maintindihan **** bawal umibig dito?

Now here enters a woman who reads;
and voraciously, too.
In the coffee shop, in a wine bar,
in the meat shop, in a funeral.
Now here enters a woman who’s a poet;
she writes as one would deal drugs.
In the dark, in the down low,
in well-versed hush, in rehearsed rush.
Now here enters an angry woman;
“how feisty, I bet she’s a *****.”
Points fingers at men twice her size,
she punches mouths until they bleed out lies.
Now here enters a healthy woman;
healed as her anger is not suppressed,
she exercises, eats less than the rest,
hushes her mouth as the poison’s out.

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I thank
that in a world so vast,
at how wide time stretch,
you and I still met?

I do believe in God,
who else could orchestrate
such a boundless union as ours?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I pray to
for your safety and peace,
knowing that's not something
I could offer you and give?

I do believe in God,
who else could write and design
such a flawless experiment as you and I?

Yes I believe in God,
for who else should I give credits to
for moving seas and history
and my stubborn mind,
thinking the impossible like you'd be mine?

I do believe in God,
who else could make someone like you for me,
and our islands that we will swim and live in?

I want to tell you that I've been having bad coffee for days
I want to kiss you everywhere, like you said
I want to tell you that I've been having the worse days
I want to kiss you to the sound of the morning waves
I want to tell you that I've been dying to feel the sun's rays
I want to feel alive again, to be resurrected
I want to tell you that I've been hallucinating your face
I want to feel your skin, bury me, I don't wanna be saved
I want to color my hair blue, it's true
because I couldn't tell you I miss you
I want to tell you in every language you speak
because I feel like my own words feel bleak and weak
I want to live my life fully or at least pretend to be
because I can't live with the fact that you don't want me
I want to tell you how my day and week went
but I can't do that without my knees busted and bent
I want to tell you that I don't want you, you're not who I like
but I can't live with yet another one of my lies

Tierra infravalorada
pero aquí es donde vivo,
la Diosa divina del sol de oriente.
Su fuego ardiente,
También vive dentro de ti ahora.
En ti latiendo está.
¡Tierra del queso dulce!
Del barquiron cuna,
Los invasores
No te hollarán jamás.
¡Tierra de todo lo demás más dulce y mejor!
¡Incluso los que odian siguen volviendo por más!
Y en mi azul cielo, en mis auras,
En mis montes y en mi mar,
Esplende y late el mis poemas
De tu amada libertad.
Tu idiomas que en las lides
La victoria iluminó,
las tres estrellas son luces
Que brillan, es el mejor regalo!
Tierra de dichas, del sol y amores,
Tierra de dichas, del sol y amores,
En tu regazo dulce es vivir.
Es una gloria para tus hijos,
Cuando te ofenden, por ti morir

If a faithful could lie even to a priest,
you too could **** me with just one kiss.
Come to my house, I have great books.
Really great books.
At my bedside table, there,
you’d find everything.
A religious don’t feel God through sea breeze.
Come here, closer than ever, check my boots.
Aren’t they some great boots?
At my bed’s side, I dare, let’s find and do
everything indeed.
You don’t need to be religious to feel my kiss.

We truly don't know what true love is.
No one truly got it right. Not the bible, not the academics,
neither did the true lovers, the pretenders or the poets.
Love is not always kind, so the bible did lie.
Love is also not rational, so the academics are ****.
Love is not a performance, tell the artists.
Love is not found in letters, write to the poets.
Rather love is a release of control,
yet love is a test of faith and it's a curveball.
Love is surrendering from the grip of force,
love is a constant practice of freefall.

I am only your lowly servant,
I feel as miniscule as an ant.
In moans I pray and poems I chant,
I need my wishes fulfilled and grant.
Before you I bow my stubborn head,
after you, lead the way to the bed.
Don’t open your wallet for me and spend,
just spend time with me, or make it bend.
Come to me, even closer and kneel,
why avoid something you strongly feel?
Come for me, undo me, unwrap my seal,
why would I fight? I’d rather go for the ****.
I am only your lowly servant,
I feel as miniscule as an ant.
One rule of my church: take off your shirt,
I don’t even care about the brand.

Welcome to the thrift store of words.
In here, you can find everything thrown away so cheap, all at discount.
This is the bank of poems and other swords,
fancy loaning a new language?
This is where you can get a horse you never have to saddle or dismount.
“It’s all a numbers game”
but the world is a poet’s playground,
what a big, fat and juicy shame.
“The world is your oyster”
but what if I’m allergic to seafood,
gold mine is what I prefer.
Welcome to the black market of loanwords.
In here, you may find poems or songs you’ve somehow forgotten or lost, take them back.
This is the land of thousand languages,
knows no leeches or new lords.
This is where you can find streets of old age and churches singing for you: “come back.”
“Ah that’s another loanword”,
so collect the dues from my lips,
add interest and a little more.
“Ah but that word’s just borrowed”,
so I will return them, all then some,
if you return and get them yourself
from the vault that is my mouth.

Now my body is not mine, now it's not yours too.
If you think of me sacred, you will not play me like a fool.
"Don't play with food", our elders would say during meals.
But I'll play with you until you begin praying.
Now this body is yours, now this is not mine.
If you believe in anything, throw everything down the line.
"Take this and drink from it", commands the priest.
I'll pray for you until you stop playing.
It's time to take this body, have it bent, broken and twist.
Now my body is holy, now it isn't.
If you thought of me divine, you wouldn't have wasted my time.
If you thought, "I got her, she's mine", that's the highest
and holiest mistake of your life.

He opens his mouth, angels sing
He flashes a smile, what joy it brings
You see his face on screen, the city knows
Yet you won’t find his name on my poems.

He walks like the world is his centerstage
He talks to me as if we’re the same age
You see him ride into the night, a mischief
Yet you won’t hear his songs from my lips.

He opens curtains and car doors for me
He closes his mouth whenever I need it
You see him on my phone these days
Yet he would never take your place.

He said “don’t call me by my name”,
I said “well I don’t want to call you daddy.”
He said “do you wanna play a game?
I said “Not really. How about a bible study?”

"No creo que pueda estar contigo jamás", le dijo el azúcar al hielo.
"...Creo que me derretirás más que el calor,
tu tacto probablemente sería peor que el del fuego,
me desfigurarás más que nada en este mundo", continuó.

"Yo tampoco podría imaginar estar contigo", respondió el hielo al azúcar.
"...Creo que el verano contigo sería un infierno en la tierra,
tu beso traería aire ártico eterno a un mar tropical,
me evaporarás más rápido que la velocidad de la luz", gritó.

"...pero pienso en ti.
Pienso en ti derritiéndome.
Pienso en tu tacto en mi piel.
Pienso en ti derritiéndome y desfigurándome,
más que nada en este mundo", escribió el azúcar en silencio.

"...pero te imagino.
Imagino el verano contigo día a día.
Imagino tus besos, empiezo a rezar para ser en cambio agua de mar.
Imagino evaporarme por tu culpa y en realidad te lo permitiría,
más rápido que la velocidad de la luz", suspira el hielo en secreto.

I know, I listen to, I speak your language
yet you don’t know mine.
Eighth of the year, my language’s month,
tonight is the eighth night.
And still, I write a poem in your language
yet I’m counting to nine,
that’s all I can do, I hate counting?
What else can I do,
Eighth of the year, my mother’s birth,
it’s not her language winning the fight.
And still, I write poem in your language
with the help of grapes off the vine,
where’s the justice in that?

If I’m going out tonight,
I must wear a pretty dress,
but what color should I wear?
Faint yellow, something mellow?
Or golden, a little bold and brazen?
What about blue? A royal shade and hue.
I don’t want it light, don’t want to leave a clue.
Perhaps I’d go for the usual suspect, red?
Something familiar, garnet or scarlet?
The color of war, as with my heart.
Turn the flag upside down, as my frown,
call a truce or tell me the truth,
pick me apart like your favorite fruit.
What do you think? Drinking with him,
I am holding out my glasses to clink.
Can I know your opinion? I’m with him,
and I am trying not to look like I’m cutting onions.
How should I wear my hair?
Do I let it down and loose,
or do I put it up with the *****?
What color should I paint my lips?
What shade hides “I want to jump off a cliff”?
What do you think?
I am holding out my heart for you to reach,
you don’t even want it.
Can I hear your opinion?
If I’m not going to be with you,
I have no choice but to move on.

My heart is a walled city,
an inner city with fortresses so high.
On all corners, cannons await enemies.
I protect my heart fiercely for I know
how fierce my heart and love can be.
My heart is an inner city,
protected by centuries behind me.
On all eight gates, soldiers are guarding closely.
I have walls so mighty and high for I have
been dragged bloodily through these streets.
My heart is within a walled, inner city,
yet somehow you have authority,
you have some special key.
I am a newer, poorer, younger city,
some jewel or pearl of the east,
tell me, are you my king?

I can't wait for the day they would also tax our feelings;
put an actual price tag on human emotions.
I can't wait for our poems and sonnets to be reduced to graphs;
to watch our market crash or soar to the moon.
Isn't that all where this is going?
Doesn't everything have a price to pay or wait?
I can't even tell you "I wish you'd call me sometimes, even once.",
it's something I cannot afford.
I cannot afford your first-world love.
At the end of the day aren't we all just reduced to numbers?
Or one day, must I also pay a price to wait?
At the end of it all, we should let love make us dumber.
I can't wait for the day I can no longer afford these feelings;
put my heart in a sack or bag, throw it to a river of temptation.
I can't tell you "I wanna be yours", even pretending feels criminal.
Imagining you more makes me none the richer.
But I cannot afford the luxury of your distractions.
I can't wait for my proses and songs to be condensed to ashes;
to watch the exchange rates or sit together by the sunset.

Amidst the distance and dialects,
I only daydream about your kiss
and how I want your breath on my neck.

I got a whole city with people of all colors
trying to tell me to let you go.
I can’t be cured by even a dozen doctors.

Between our languages and latitudes,
I only long for longer nights with you,
tell you I’ve been longing for your attitude.

I got the whole world with people of no poetry
telling me to put down my pen.
If you don’t want to imprison me, set me free!

Because beween the borders and barriers
I only feel like I belong with you
I want to be beside you, to make you happier!

I wish I can remember what kind of books we had on our shelves.
When did we stop believing in mermaids, aliens, fairies and elves?
I wish I can rewrite the kind of kids we were before life's tragic kiss.
Where did we lose our whimsical antics and childish fantasies?

So many things I wish I could bring, so many wishes to wish.
When we sleep apart at night, that's when we're closest to being kids.
So many things I couldn't undo, so many dust to clean with vacuum.
We grew apart for years, how do we go back to our old classroom?

I wish I can recall what we both looked like when we were twelve.
When did everything start to go wrong, and when is it going to end?
I wish I could've been there, but we needed to be strong by ourselves.
When we're twenty-eight, I'd tell you everything will be fine my friend.

"Hindi ko lubos maisip ang sarili ko sa katulad mo",
sabi ng asukal sa yelo.
"...sa tingin ko, matutunaw mo ako nang higit pa sa init,
Ang hawak mo, hula ko lang, mas nakakapaso pa sa apoy,
sisirain mo ako higit pa sa anumang bagay sa mundong ito,"
patuloy nito.

"Hindi ko rin naman maisip na makapiling kita,"
sagot ng yelo sa asukal.
"...sa tingin ko, ang tag-araw kasama ka ay impiyerno sa lupa,
ang iyong halik ay magdadala ng walang hanggang tag-ginaw sa isang tropikal na dagat,
lulusawin at mapapatuyo mo ako higit pa sa bilis ng liwanag,"
sigaw nito.

"...pero iniisip kita.
Iniisip ko ang dulot mo sa aking paglusaw.
Iniisip ko ang dala ng dampi ng iyong hawak.
Iniisip ko ang haplos ng iyong pagtunaw at sa aki'y pagsira,
higit pa sa anumang bagay sa mundong ito," tahimik na sulat ng asukal.

"...pero pinapangarap kita.
Pinapangarap ko ang tag-araw kasama ka, araw-araw.
Pinapangarap ko ang iyong halik, at aking panalangin sa maykapal,
"sana nga'y ginawa mo na lang akong tubig-dagat!"
Pangarap kong ako'y iyong nilulusaw at ika'y aking hahayaan,
mas mabilis kaysa sa bilis ng liwanag," palihim na hagulgol ng yelo.

"I don't think I could ever be with you.", said the sugar to ice.
"...I think you will melt me in ways worse than heat could,
your touch would probably be worse than fire's,
you will deface me more than anything in this world.", she continues.

"I couldn't imagine being with you either.", replied the ice to sugar.
"...I think summer with you would be hell on earth,
your kiss would bring eternal arctic air to a tropical sea,
you will evaporate me faster than the speed of light.", he screams.

"...but I think about you.
I think about you melting me.
I think about your touch on my skin.
I think about you destroying me, melting me and defacing me,
more than anything in this world.", writes the sugar silently.

"...but I imagine you.
I imagine summer with you day by day.
I imagine your kisses,"turn me into seawater instead!", I pray.
I imagine evaporating because of you and I would allow you,
faster than the speed of light.", sighs the ice secretly.

I say it, I said it, I’ve been saying it!
When I pray, and when I end it.
When I’m realizing something.
When I’m unsure of something.
When I’m moaning.
It’s how my mouth opens when I’m about
to laugh
Or when I moan
Oh goodness, especially so.
Or when I sigh
Ah, but of course.
I will never forget you, but I have to.
When I realize something,
I would probably still think about you.
When I’d finally moan for another, I fear
it’s still the first letter of your name I’ll hear.
Ah, I’m gonna drink until my eyes turn red.
Ah, I loved romanticizing about how we met.
Ah, but I can finally face the truth and forget.
Ah, this is cliche but I wish you the best.
Ah, I truly hope you won't have regrets.
Ah, I wish you warmth these months in the west.
I say it, I said it, I’ve been saying it!
I pray, I hope, I wish I really finally ended it.

When love found you again, was she wearing red or white?
Was she wearing a dress?
Do you even remember what she was wearing, or what color,
or were you too drawn to her lips? Or her eyes? Or her skin?
And when you found love again, were your emotions contained? Your feelings bottled?
Were your solutions contaminated? Your feigned peace now but an uncalled-for battle?

Poetry is not meant to be consumed like beer or cigarettes
or even gin... poetry is meant to be savoured like wine;
that in slow sips, through mindful mouthfuls.
Poetry is the wine of the alcoholic literature.
Like some love stories are not to be rushed or rehearsed
or rabid or rapid, not a combustion; rather of steady and stable,
like that of the time of waiting for grapes to be wine.

So who’s to say God hasn’t been orchestrating the wars, the famine, the wreckage, the floodings, making us wait for his return,
for the good of all of us? Good by his definition, who else?
Who’s to write that he’s not only delaying our graces by serving us children’s cold bodies for appetizers, before the main dish of eternal salvation? Who’s to know?