"bakit ka ganyan mag-isip? hindi naman ako mawawala."
yan ang sabi mo sa akin noon
buti nalang hindi na ako naniwala
dahil kung sakali, hanggang ngayon ay magsisinungaling pa rin ako sa sarili ko
"patawad" lang ang naisagot ko
hindi ako perpektong tao kaya sana patawarin mo 'ko
hindi ko na binigyan ng isang segundo ang pag-iisip
dahil ang salitang ito
salitang nanghihingi ng kapatawaran mo
ay matagal-tagal nang nagkukubli sa'kin dito
ngunit bigyan mo ako ng kaunting panahon para magpaliwanag sayo
dahil sa pagkakataong ito lunod na ang sarili sa kasinungalingan
ng "patawad" noong simula palang
"patawad", dahil simula noong iniwas mo ang mga mata mo
noong akala ko ayos pa ang haligi na sinasandalan ko
hindi na ako naniwala
"patawad", dahil pagkatapos noong pagsisigawan natin
tumitig ka sa mata ko, alam kong patibong mo na naman 'to
kaya hindi na ako naniwala
"patawad", dahil sa tuwing sinasabi mo ang salitang "patawad"
halos hindi ko na maihulma sa utak ko ang ibig sabihin mo
kaya ni minsan hindi na ako naniwala sayo
at halos lahat ng salita na binibigkas ng labi mo
patawarin mo ako, dahil sa hangin ko nalang ibinabato
sa pagkakataong ito na nasabi ko na ang salitang "patawad"
sana patawarin mo ako
dahil hindi ko masabi ang lahat ng ito sayo
nais ko, pero ayokong sisihin mo ang 'yong sarili
ayokong isipin mo na ikaw ang nagkamali
pero sana pala binanggit ko nalang sa 'yo 'to
para ngayon hindi lang ako ang nahihirapan na bumitaw
dahil alam ko, matagal ka nang bumitaw
at akala mo ako ang nauna
pero hindi,
hindi, dahil hanggang ngayon nakakapit pa rin ako
alam ko ang totoo pero nakakapit pa rin ako.

I guess this serves as a warning.
To the friends and the loved ones
members of an active social order
wanting a life of something more than disorder.

Poetry is not a breath.
It is not an escape into a lesser abyss
that leaves you scratch free.
Or an opening and interesting guarantee.

Instead
it grabs inwardly at you.
It coaxes the trolls from the deepest
corners of the forest that you had
long since banished and left behind
and wanted to rid your mind of and
never wanted to see again.

The fire that had been stomped out
is reborn.

The crashing waves that broke the ship
fight again.

And poetry reopens the wounds
that you had hoped would heal
with time and with suppression
that had once filled and consumed with aggression.

Poetry is anger.

Poetry leaves the poet
drowning
in a river of currents when it flows
but out in the baking sun when
it stops.

The issue is
for a poet to be happy
with her work

she must also feel the
unhappy in her life.

I miss you
I long for you
I would **** to have you by my side

Words like these give you the pleasure of hearing them, don’t they? But little do you know, these words come out from sorrow, despair. Delusion, perhaps.
It could be months before I get you back, it could be years… it could be… never. I may never fall back into your arms again. I might as well stay as I am; broken beyond repair.

I knew I’d lose you I just didn’t have the slightest clue it would be so soon, so… What’s the word? Effortless?
I guess so.
I began losing you that day, little at a time, piece after piece. Fights followed by cold behavior. I started going days without hearing from you, and I began wondering, how on earth do you manage to stay away from the person you love the most and not feel a thing? And then it hit me that this question worked its best on me, maybe it all meant a little something, to me. Maybe, just maybe, you were my favorite thing in the world but I was the least worthy of your time and attention. God knows how much I loath one-sided affection.

My dearest friend, my ever lasting love. You were more than just words. Your beauty was beyond my understanding. I remember laying in bed, wondering, what have I done, that was so purely good, to be blessed with a soul like yours?
You understood me with every word I said, you memorized all of my concepts. And I let you slip away. And I will always hate both of us for letting go of something irreplaceable.

You're no longer here and it all seems pointless cause I write as much as I can but no ink nor thought, no word nor letter has the power to bring you back to me.

I miss you. It sounds pleasing at first, but if you read between those three words, you’ll find what I call… Grief.