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Into a place far away but too familiar,
I push open the rusty purple gates,
Inhale a lungful of the province air,
Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground,
And then
Mano my lolo, my tito
Beso my lola, my tita
And give my cousins a nudge on the arm,
A pinch on the cheeks.

I squeeze between four people
In a rickety wooden bench and
Pass around plate after heavy plate.
I fill my banana leaf
With spaghetti too soft too sweet,
Almost like pudding,
With crispy chicken dripping with oil.
I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman,
Chewy beads and gems in sugary water.

Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards;
Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines;
While we children argue about Superman or Batman.
Our laughter fills the humid air
And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors.

In celebration of the time we have together
And a nice sunny day
We devour our meals
And go ahead and
Climb trees and
Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits,
Lick chocolate ice popsicles,
Chase each other in the weedy playground,
Bike around town,
Pick colorful flowers,
Wrestle with each other,
Play badminton on a windy day,
Scare around chickens and guinea pigs,
And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps.

We nervously creep inside the back door,
All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches
But still with wide smiles on our faces.
All is futile though.
An angry grandmother awaits,
Scolding us for
Coming home past sunset.

More and more stars glitter the sky
As the night gets deeper and deeper.
The gentle evening breeze whistles a note
As it enters through the window.
The karaoke blasts grating voices
Interrupted by hearty laughter.
Playing cards and corn chips litter the table.
We children exchange jokes and ghost stories.

And then,
We bid our goodbyes,
Sharing hugs and kisses
Stained with discontent and sadness.
Our hearts about to burst
In excitement for the next
Reunion.
A typical Filipino reunion looks more or less like this :)

"Mano" is a respectful gesture done mostly to elders wherein you hold a person's hand and make it touch your forehead. "Beso" is something usually done by ladies wherein you brush cheeks with each other. "Lolo" means grandfather. "Tito" means uncle. "Lola" means grandmother. "Tita" means aunt. "Gulaman" is a popular drink/desert. "Patintero" is a kind of outdoor game wherein a team must prevent the other team from crossing over to the other side of the court by tagging them, it's really fun!
A broken wreck
A blind rebel
So lost
So broken
Chasing rapids
Diving waterfalls
Only to end up in a
Vast murky
Ocean
And sink
                                                                                   Endlessly
To its cold, lonely depths

But He
Breaks the chains
That anchors me to sin
But He
Fishes me out
Of the dark abyss
And I
Rise
Rise beyond the surface
And I
Live
Live for the very first time

He waters down my briny filth---guilt
He wraps me in a thick blanket
With love in every stitch
He hands me a warm mug of cocoa
Overflowing with marshmallows
But He didn't even need to
How could He even want to

And then He welcomes me to His ship
Of formidable majesty and splendor,
Gives me a net,
And names me as a fisher of men
We sail
We fish
Through stormy seas
Vast oceans
Savage pirates
But all is well
All is great, in fact
For His ship is firmly established
A jewel made of iron
And He always knows the Way
Because He is,
He is the Captain of Captains
And I am His fisher of men
When the rain cleans the leaves, from the classroom awning
I walk to the hospital carpark, yawning.
Treading over makeshift graves for dead leaves,
I think to myself 'They've left home, they've left the trees.'
Sarcastically wondering why I can *** a smoke from cancer patients in mouring.
Constantly reading the same signs,
'No Parking'
'No Smoking'
'No Loitering
But I know I've been here far too long,
When the shattered, sick and weak tell me to move along.
So the past few days,

I wondered,

And searched…

Who am I?

What do I embody?

And I’ve been told before…

That I’m as sweet as honey.

That’s the thing though,

I don’t want to be honey,

I’ld rather be a cup of coffee,

A little sugar,

Alot of milk..

Sweet. Warm. Earthy.

I want to be a sunflower.

I want to shine and make people smile…

But still wilt…

You have to wilt…

You have to admit defeat.

You can’t just forget everything…

When you forget, it crashes into you…

Like today…

I was driving,

Windows down, music up, no cares…

But I noticed the warmth on my hand,

And it reminded me of all of your hands,

All of them.

How I won’t see some of them again,

How some still torment me,

And how some I can’t trust to touch me…

All the memories,

All the “maybes”

Hit like a bullet,

And that’s why we wilt…

Creating a new us…

New me.
do you
ever wonder
if stars
feel unappreciated
unloved?
to the point where
they shrug and say
"no human even
takes time to look"
then with their last
effort to shine and
shimmer
they explode
into gas and dust particles
never to light up
the night sky
again

do
withered flowers
bother you?
what if they longed
to live
to grow
to survive
but just because
of one
wayward human
its petals
fell
its stem
wilted
and its color
faded

what about
the clouds
in the sky
are their drops
of water
a plea for help?
do they tear up
because of all
the unpleasant
chemicals and
vile stenches
we bring?

do you
think that
the wind moans
violently
because it didn't
drift
the way it
wanted to go?

what if
trees
swayed side to side
when they
hear the
beautiful songs
beautiful melodys
of the bluebirds
perched on their
branches

did it cross
your mind
if the sun
and moon
were long time
lovers
but now they
feel loneliness
and despair because
the only time they
meet
is when the sun
sets and
the moon rises

did it ever
occur to you
that if humans
had
feelings
nature could too?
When your heart stops, your brain still works for seven minutes
Seven minutes to still feel pain.

Then why is it that when your heart breaks, your brain continues to play the memories of us over and over?
An eternity to feel the pain.
Not exactly a poem, just something I thought of at 1:30 in the morning.
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