So much for superheroes saving the day;
Every good guy's epilogue is a cliche.
Tedious compulsory celebrations
For all their mundane actions.

A villain's portrayal is what excites me.
Ever since a kid I could already see;
Creativity in all those gimmicks,
Geniuses of ***** tactics.

It is never easy to become the antagonist.
The object of all hate and blacklist;
The one that is destined to fail,
To fulfill a comic's holy grail.

Yet the bad guys do most of the heavy work,
Perfecting their schemes with an evil smirk;
But every time they're about to win,
The plot will smash their plan to ruins.

They say some people are destined to be heroes;
It's a fate preordained a long time ago.
But the truth is that everyone needs a villain,
To finally uncover their life's meaning.

What the world generally calls as criminals,
In reality are just misunderstood equals.
They taught me more about the cruel life,
Better than any superhero's strife.

The velvet moon sprung a tide
Crashing towards the wrecked shore
Of wretched dreams and perplexed hearts.
The sand of grayest melancholy
Veils a secrecy of lies
In an ocean of saddening truth.
The sky cried out in vain
Pouring wisest drops of rain
Towards both the tide and sand
And mingled them as one
Towards the crimson sky of dawn.

Earth is a pretty
Messed up equation
Of quite hastily
Made up solution.

We are but numbers
Of different values
Every sign matters
In this set of issues.

Many were born real
Physiques built evenly
Few quite look odd and
Imaginary.

Some are but factors
Serving evil's loots
Denominators
Of ungodly roots.

There are radicals
Who've got point of view
So are rationals
To speak a word or two.

We're discriminant
To other religions
Differential rant
To other opinions.

Can't we simplify
This complex squirm
And instead unify
To a common term?

We're just variables
Merely dependent
On the valuables
Of our environment.

We were given one
To be shared by all
Equality's gone
And this is our call.

The sun melts the zenith
Of wild galloping horses
Igniting the mist of dust
From the scorched flesh.

The moon fluttered to the gallows
Where the dawn slithered by
But her inevitable death
Sprung a vengeful return.

The infant orb of Helium
Lies cradled in the horizon
Where the grinning darkness lurks
In the vesper of the shadows.

I keep hanging by these tangents
Of your dashes and curves
Trying to figure out how every
Version of your twists and turns
Unravels into a canvas
Of visual perfection.
It's perplexing, really
How you mend your schisms
Into waltzing polygons
Every time I break you down
Into fractures of your selves
I end up lingering in your angles
Of oblique abstraction
Turning vertices into suns
And edges into horizons.
Then I reconstruct you
From your purest form
This brush provoking
Both palette and palate
For every stroke and spatter.
Your beauty didn't mind
What madness to this method
The monochrome requires
To finally become free
And shackled at the same time.

He took the stage for a one-man show
A character of a hundred roles
Too many a script but he sure knows
To take a bow when the curtain falls.

A storyteller extraordinaire
In his endless soliloquy
Over a thousand and one affairs
Of all his quixotic reverie.

Two hands he proudly speaks at best
Which work like that of twenty men
From different realms of Sciences
Philosophy and Arts he studied them.

But what wound could cut so deep
That he can fool everyone but himself?
Before he drowns his sorrow to sleep
He hides his monsters behind the shelf.

He took his mask and off a smile
That he wore to get himself a crowd
And asked the mirror for quite a while
Did all the theatrics make him proud?

He was the Jack of all trades
Certainly not an expert in one
And his own game of charades
Made him a master of none.

Thespians and thieves
Dressed in robes of deceit
Drunk in their monologues
An agenda up their sleeves.
With nations for playthings
They pull invisible strings
At the pounding of the gavel
All the acts shall begin.
Waging wars at their podium
Both judge and executioner
For the improper decorum
They conspire to pull the trigger.
For the horde of reporters
To fiddle the media screens
A game of smoke and mirror
To stage the perfect scene.
They dance with politics
While half the world burns
Amused in the devil's antics
As plundered cities mourn.
A soiree will soon follow
The deliberate verdict
The jury can rejoice in the gallow
But their heads will hang upon it.

The hunters like to play in the night
When the sky is at its darkest
And only a faded light
Bares silhouette of their monstrosity
Hidden in the pitch black robes
Camouflaged in sheep's clothing
Ready to ****** and devour.

The preys were worshipping
A fertile god of idiocracy
Birthing the eternal twilight
In her severely defiled womb
But the hands of time spun
And a race for a new dawn
Heralded a new religion.

Now the tides have turned
And all the filth in it washed
To the shores of grand awakening
Every fool has been baptized
While the martyrs cursed their tombs
They all danced to a song of retribution
Around an inextinguishable flame.

The preys bathed in the horrors
Of their own trivial fears
And forged indomitable hearts
With blood that burns in the dark
And eyes that can see through the deceit
Wielding the weapon of truest strike
To punish the heedless wolves.

Everywhere's a center stage,
The largest zoo of a billion cage.
You can sit in front of your TV screen,
Or go outside to see smokes rising from the scenes.
It's a scorching sight to behold, yes,
But we'll enjoy it nevertheless.

You can switch to a hundred channels,
Featuring all of the biggest scandals.
Each show set ablaze by different combustions
People killing people, cities, and nations.
Glorifying carnal desires like gods of men,
With knowledge of sin and the intent to do it again.

The list just goes on like the raging flames,
People getting beaten in their own wicked games.
Leaders waging wars with their toy soldiers,
The media deceiving their susceptible viewers.
Followers losing faith in their God and church
People not finding love no matter where they search.

Let's enjoy the spectacle, there's no need to rush,
We can paint the view with a worn-out brush.
Fuel to the fire's as infinite as people's wrath,
From the trivial problems, issues, and whatnot.
To the most intriguing dilemmas confronting man,
Too busy he forgot how the world should be run.

Let lore luster lax,
Lingered love leavens.
Let love loop lilac lei lavishly.

Listen lovelorn lilt, laconic liken
Lisping liturgy, limping litany.
Litmus-leaking longing, languor lengthened.

Do you know what happens
When two worlds collide?
It's like a churn of eggs and beer
In a gastronomic ride.

At first it could be delicious
That it takes you all the way
To a taste of hershey's kisses
Or a scent of red boquet.

You'll wish that it remain like this
And believe it to be true
That there's no moment you  would want to miss
And you've figured out all clue.

But then the waves go tossing
And the sweet and sour will blend
To a bitter flavor toxicating
Two hearts to a drunken end.

The tearing and the swearing
Could make you realize
That the biggest toll of loving
Is making it real in your eyes.

So what's left is a rancid vapor
From two hearts both left for dead
That will free all pain and horror
From the lips they're left unsaid.

There's something ecstatic
With the way you dribble your lips,
******* the silken corners of your teeth
Like a mirage of flickering sunbeams
Radiating from the foliage
Of two crimson river beds.

As your hand fumbles
Through your velvet hair
A mercurial hide explodes
Like a figment of the universe
Gateway to the distant worlds
Of wonders left unknown.

Those hazel pair of astral orbs
The origin of stars
Stare through and true
Piercing me without blades
Burning my body petrified
In an ephemeral ecstasy.

My soul flutters with the hymn
Of the fiddling zephyr
That strums to the beat of my heart
A pounce to my seething core
Emancipating a salvo of sensations
To an ethereal phantasm.

A dream that it never was
An episodic tale of this eclectic void
Of twisted reality
That snatches me to the depths
Of my wildest fabrications
A state of lucid insanity.

When my eyes first opened for the world
With my cries aloud and my body curled
Her bright smile put the sun to shame
And her warm embrace was the one to tame.

Through the wounds I get when I stumble down
And the tears I shed when I feel a clown
She would come running in the barest feet
And try to save me from my drowning fleet.

At times we get ourselves in a fight
And we cuss and fuss with all our might
But when our hate and rage finally subside
We would smile and swallow up our pride.

She knows me better than I know myself
And my monsters lurking behind the shelf
She’s got the best medicine I've ever known
To every sickness that my body had sown.

Her wrinkles are her boldest legacy
For the love and care she gave to me
That I can’t help but give back in return
A promise that I have tirelessly sworn.

Let the earth devour our bodies weak
Crush our brittle bones in the grayest bricks
Still my heart and soul will always remember
That I have the world’s greatest mother!

I want to be the Man of Steel
But I cannot breathe
On that tight sheath
I'm too short to spread
That shiny cape of red.

I want to roam the galaxies
But my fear of height
Defeats my will for flight
And my skinny thighs
Tremble in the skies.

I want to have Herculean strength
But my tiny hands
Don't stand a chance
Over chunks of meteors
Or Velociraptors.

I want to gain superior speed
But my porous skin
Crumbles in the wind
And my crooked feet
Hate the city streets.

I want a pair of laser eyes
But my reading glasses
Could reflect the flashes
And deprive my sight
Of the Earthly light.

I want the power of the sun
But my curly hair
Could catch a flare
And they'll all conspire
To set myself on fire.

I want a shield of purest lead
But my brittle bones
Petrify to stones
Before the aegis glides
Against all Kryptonites.

I hate to want the Man of Steel
His pair of laser eyes
Or his flight to the skies
His speed and vigor
Or eternal power.

I wish to be just Clark Kent
Who only has a pen
That he can lend to men
But was the one to gain
The love of Lois Lane.

Your face is oblique
But it's quite unique
Don't mind the critique.

Apply a pound of cosmetics
Transform your looks of a derelict
Into an Anna Kendrick.

Here, take this bouquet
Use a striking sobriquet
And own the soiree.

Sting like a bee
With your Master's degree
In bottomless energy.

Crack jokes like a nut
Leave them hanging like, "What?"
Blend your humor and your guts.

End the night like milk
Drag your dress of fake silk
Call a taxi driver of your ilk.

Head home like a killer
Laugh proud at the mirror
Because tonight, you're the winner.

The culmination of the battle,
Between salty and sour,
Peppered to perfection.
The sweetness of caramelized onions,
The tickling aroma of browned garlic,
In a beautiful confetti of scallions.
Warm and tender meat,
Drenched in an otherworldy sauce,
Bursting with umami and flavor.
A product of love and spices,
Filling both our bellies and hearts,
It never fails to remind me of home.
But mom, you see,
In all these years, I've come to know,
Of all your versions of Adobo,
The best ones are made,
When you share it with me.

Served warm,
Like your love for us;
On a deep bowl,
As bottomless as your trust.
A bit spicy but healthy,
Like your lectures on things;
Seasoned with care,
With your sharp instincts.
Calm like a river,
Of your boundless patience;
In waves of flavor,
Like your ocean of common sense.
It's a dish I'd long,
Surely from time to time;
Because there's more to it,
Than these verses that rhyme.

I couldn’t help but wonder how
My life has changed from past to now
College years have come and gone
With battles fought and friendship won

I can’t rethink how I put up
A fight with all the hazy crap
Reports and quizzes make me see
My messy life’s a topsy-turvy

At times I’ve longed for high school days
When fun chased all my fears away
Exams are all but worry-free
Not like now, dread won’t leave me be

Eye bags pop from lack of sleep
Flapping out like a bulldog’s cheek
Breakfast shake hands with my lunch
Nothing’s cheaper than a brunch!

I wouldn’t care if you wouldn’t dare
To bust your **** out of a chair
For four straight hours to read or so
Without a choice, you can’t say no

Professors blow your brains away
With problems that are sure to stay
In the deepest corner of your mind
You’ll end up asking why life’sunkind.

Amidst all these, I always end
With a thought of awe and self amends
My college life is more than fear,
Struggles, hex, and countless tears

People of same age as you
Share you love and gaiety too
Laugh out loud to let you know
They’re always there and won’t let go

I couldn’t help but wonder how
My life has changed from past to now
I sure have lived this life He made me
And out I’ll share my college story.

For what are lies but ugly words
Cruelly dressed in fancy clothes
Which came to grace the masquerade
Until their very meaning erodes.
The truth in every swearer's tongue
Hummed loudly like an untamed gong
And ears bled out from aching songs
Unbridled by unmuted wrongs.
The host is left without respite
From ghosts that haunt the drunken night
The table unset, the music died
Without recompense, without requite.

Nearly napping
Nocturnal nomad
Negotiating nightmares.

Needing nicotine
Neither needles nor nickels
Numbing nobody's noble. 

Nipping nasty nightcap
Navigating Neverland
Nicknaming nebulas and novas.

A tiny speck of dust
In the celestial clump
Of infinite space
Merely consubstantial
With the ocean of stars
In a cloud of galaxies.

Began to move
Began to feel
Began to think
Began to dream
Began to live.

The wisdom of a thousand lore
Bore a tapestry of culture
That danced to an endless music
And read a myriad of poetry
Which spoke in different tongues.

Began to play
Began to wage
Began to rage
Began to hurt
Began to war.

Clashed beneath the smoke of dawn
But saw the piercing ray of light
That spun the thread of harmony
To cage the animosity
In the hymn of a lasting peace.

Began to build
Began to climb
Began to fly
Began to soar
Began to see.

The limitless possibilities
In the sleeping distant worlds
Of the vast depths of truth
Waiting to be explored
In the sunken days of youth.

Began to want
Began to greed
Began to lust
Began to feed
Began to ****.

And cast forth the entropy
For the triumph of the few
To the carnage of races
In the verge of selfishness
An insatiable desire.

Began to cheat
Began to lie
Began to cry
Began to end
Began to die.

In a cloud of galaxies
With an ocean of stars
Merely consubstantial
Of infinite space
In the celestial clump
A tiny speck of dust.

Luckless champions
Wearing lovelorn hearts
Decorated with invisible scars
Wander endlessly
In forests of strangers
And uncharted territories
Of fated serendipities.

They travel the busy streets
Enduring a march of defeat
Playing sad notes
On broken strings
With interludes
Of bittersweet memories.

Eternally dragging
To unknown destinations
Their worn out suitcases
Filled with unread letters
Of unspoken feelings
And unrequited love.

The calendar shed its last leaf of chances,
Three hundred and sixty six windows shut;
The moon has undergone a dozen phases,
But no high or low tide can get you past.
Your lackadaisical methods and indecision,
Failed to find that door to a good year;
And you're suffocating in your desperation,
Like a nightmare trapped in its own fear.
Eleven disappointed months fall in line,
Even December has already accepted its fate;
Cascading like lifeless dominoes you'll find,
Scattered in the wastes of your world inanimate.
Self-abhorring like a snake biting its own tail,
Aimlessly mindfully going around in circles;
Reading rejection letters and spam emails,
Looking for false hope in a perpetual cycle.
Making a promise you know you can't keep,
Like the past new years that will have come and gone;
Where you always try to count all your sheep,
And your wolves will make sure to give you none.

Ma's other half,
Our chief of staff,
The house custodian,
His grandkids' guardian,
Always the humorist,
Seasoned saxophonist,
Spiritually rooted,
Retired but lauded,
Champion of good reason,
Father for all seasons.

Overborne barrels
Rolled out in weights
That God knows how much.

Down the bottomless pit
Of unredeemable darkness
Where desire laid unrest.

The hounds of greed
Stripped off the barks
But hid the naked truth.

Where pigs are kept
For the coming slaughter
By the hungry crocodiles.

Only brittle bones
Shall be thrown and fed
To the ignorant river.

But the water saw blood
And soon the tide will rage
To drown the narcissists.

Doorsteps filled with hollow bodies
Heads cut open three-sixty-degrees
Smell of burnt candles lit up inside
The skin-carved grinning faces.

Kitchen covered in orange blood
Knives dicing the earthy flesh
The pots and ovens are steaming
All the choicest of parts.

Backyard decorated with guts
And spoiled meat left for the crows
The seeds scattered all over
Lying in a bed of dead hay.

Oh, what a happy day!
For the sweet tooth and high-spirited
But never the gray skies
That bore witness to the carnage.

I cursed my summer storms
And it poured down the whole sky
On me, heavily.
I keep dragging these horses
Down the raging river but they wouldn't
Drown quietly.
I watched the tides kiss the shore
Washing her tears away only to say  
Goodbye, repeatedly.
I tried deserting this sinking island
Trapped in midnight sunsets
But it wouldn't let me.

I started digging my own grave
But the sands keep receding towards
My inner gravity.
I went deeper until I found a well
Brimming with cold truths and bitter
Memories.
I began staring at my own reflection
Until I saw my soul skin and
Bones, hungry.
In this lonely oasis I brought myself
Back from the dead into this
Barren reality.

I stopped looking for water
And let my heart bleed a fountain of
Pure clarity.
I embraced the restless winds
To change the course of my own
Fate, tirelessly.
I scattered my broken pieces
And they flourished in the land with
Rare beauty.
I once dreamed of sailing the seas
But now I'm swimming in the ocean
Of endless possibilities.

Why do I find myself so
Weak in your arms?
Why do I fall my knees
To the pit of your charms?
Why do I betray my thoughts
For your wicked lies?
Why do I lend my ears
To your mournful cries?
Why do I lean my
Shoulders when you weep?
Why do I stay awake
Just to watch you sleep?
Why do I feel alone
If you're not around?
Why do my feet dance
When you make a sound?
Why do I catch my breathe
While you walk my way?
Why do I see heavens
When I watch you pray?
Why do I hate myself hating love?
When you're a transcedent from up above?

A husk
Of a love that once was
Where it bloomed but no more
Abandoned by monsoons
Longing for perennial rain
Waiting for November moons.

A train
Of thoughts lost in tracks
Tip-toeing on fleeting memories
Trapped in open-ended verses
Looking for a period
When this heart came to senses.

A chapter
We wrote but left incomplete
A paper town of tangent streets
Where there's no solace to find
In these desolate pages
Of stanzas that rhyme.

He kept it in a box
Laid out a dozen traps
Set up a thousand locks
So it will not find love
To save him from the pain.

Of giving what is left
In the residue of him
What life remained inside
Of his dead fidelity
She killed a long time ago.

Now it got him thinking
About chasing serendipity
And the might-have-been
If it is still beating
He can only second guess.

A self-defeating experiment
Designed to tell the truth
As he watched closely in that box
His heart, looking half alive or dead
Will it learn to love again?

I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.

They say, in the wheel of life, you'll spend half your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the bottom. I guess they got it all wrong. I believe life is a crooked tire that can never roll up and down. Pretty sure, it is nailed to the ground where weeds could grow to entangle it forever. Until now, what they keep trying to say remains a puzzle to me. Perhaps I can never understand what they mean. Or maybe I just won’t. Why? Because from the moment our eyes opened for the world, we’re already stuck down below and I’m afraid we’re trapped here in this limbo for all eternity.

We’re just simple people living an ordinary life. Like every family who seeks refuge from the storm, we do have a place we call home although it’s not much of an architectural delight. However, for some reasons, I find our roof appealing like a real work of art. Patches of cardboard embellish the underside while a combination of tarpaulin and ad posters works in harmony to provide an extended shelter. On bright mornings, we’ll wake from the sunbeams piercing through its many gaps. On rainy days, however, the sound of raindrops falling from the gaps down to our water containers serves as our wake up call.

To jumpstart ourselves for another day’s challenge, we could either eat breakfast (if there were any), or just sing our skipping meals away and spend the rest of the day with sacks of scraps and rubbishes on our back hoping to make a good deal with Mr. Gomez, the junk shop proprietor. He reminded me so much of my father but without the alcohol problem and violence, though. During nighttime, we bring with us our drum to sing carols on the lonely streets. If our feet become too weary to walk, that’s the time we head home. We rush all together, eager to count the coins we’ve collected that night. We make sure to put a plastic cap underneath two of our table’s feet so that it won’t lean uncontrollably and spill the tiers of ten, five and one peso coins we’ve dedicatedly piled over. Then the next part does the trick. A portion of our collection for the night goes straight down a big jar and joins in the many others which fill more than half of the container. The remaining part is used to buy supper to save our hungry tummies from
shrinking again. However, during slack nights when drivers and busy people decided to become miserly, we’re fortunate enough to have a pack of noodles for supper. But if we ran out of luck, we just set our untidy beds ready and drown our raging stomachs to sleep. I know there’s not pretty much but this is where our lives revolve. And as they say, life must go on no matter what.

Together with the three most important persons of my life, I continue the journey for a better living. Along the way, we try to search for the good things out of life’s bitter truths. We never let misery **** our hopes and dreams. Instead, we work harder and tougher. Take Islay, for example. She’s cheerful,
clever, aggressive, talented, a model of hard work. She’s got most of everything. Well, except for height, probably. I wanted to be a doctor so I could help the needy. Islay dreams of becoming an elementary teacher. She said she really likes kids and teaching them would surely be a more exciting thing to do.

Then there’s Nova. Her looks may require you a little more time to think and consider, but she has a good heart. However, she gets a little, uhhm, what term do we use for an unsociable person? That’s it! She’s a bit of a Killjoy!

Islay and Nova caroled a store swarmed with drunkards. It was always Islay who’ll find every creative idea and propose it convincingly to Nova, who in turn hesitates and rejects it but then ultimately respects it in the end. Islay always has the winning edge. Maybe that’s one of her abilities. Her convincing power deserves a credit to the list.

The two didn’t mind the ***** that welcomed them. Inside her mind, Nova asked herself how many people could waste their money on a doze of liquid or spirit that can poison their mind and bring them to imminent danger. If only they have given it to the poor and needy, they could have saved a lot of lives instead of ruining their own.

But Aling Nena, the wicked storeowner, unleashed her witchy wrath to the two. She looked at them with eyes of contempt, of prejudice and disgust. She accused the two as jinxes and blamed them for the
store’s unprofitable end. If only she could look at herself and discover a chest of shimmering blame, she might shrink into shame. Islay and Nova ran off not because they were afraid of Aling Nena or the drunken men but because of what Aling Nena said to them. They cannot defend themselves from such
an attack. How could they when they were surrounded with eyes of ridicule?

And of course, there’s my dearest sister, Juaning. We’ve only got each other since our mother’s death. It has been months already. Juaning was still 15 when mama left us. She’s 16 now. It’s been quite a while and I know she misses mama a lot like I do.

And so they fought life’s bitter realities. They begged and implored to the unconcerned passers-by, almost falling to their weak knees for one very important thing - to live. But even if the three of them were sitting, lying, and rolling down the cold pavement, these people with more graces just pass by without even sparing a glance of concern. Wouldn’t it be happier if they shared their God-given blessings? But as the day continues, they have to endure the hunger, the contempt. Because other than filling their
hungry stomach, they have a sibling, a friend to support.

That’s my part of the story. It has been months now since I caught a serious illness which bound me
to this bed, flat on one’s back, weak, inutile, and useless. Every time they come home, I wish I was with them to taste the sweet and feel the pain, not just a good listener to their stories of survival and moments of friendship. Someday, I’ll become strong again, and this curse of a disease shall be gone.

I woke up to the longing for water. I’ve never been this thirsty before. I called out their names but my voice just echoed deep in the four dark walls of our crooked house. With no one to help me, I summoned my strength and decided to get a glass of water by myself. But my legs aren’t as strong as my will. And as I attempted to stand, they betrayed me. I collapsed and plodded down the floor. Luckily Islay came and helped me get back to bed. She scolded me for being careless. I cried. I can’t help it. I pitied myself all
over again.

The cold evening wasn’t a problem for Islay. Seeing me cry like that crushes her heart. I know, as a friend and a part of our family, she wishes the best for me. And that’s why she’s still out there in the middle of the night, working late to earn more for our better future. She ignored the chills and the exasperation. She knows she has to work harder and she’s more than determined for it.

But something happened to me while she’s away from home. I cannot move my body, not even my mouth. Tears just fell from my weary eyes. And before it’s too late, Juaning caught me unresponsive and paralyzed. My sister cried for help. Nova sprinted to get the jar. Juaning told her what to do. And wasting no time, Nova rushed to the nearby pharmacy to get me some medicine, and most probably to save my life.

But Nova’s effort was in vain. Prescription drugs cannot be bought that easily. The pharmacist closed down the only lining of hope for me. The security guard felt pity on Nova and he suggested her an alternative decision that will change our lives forever.

Islay was still busy serenading the busy streets with her chants of joy and sweet hums. But the clouds become unwelcoming. And by the sound of the thunder, big droplets of rain started pouring down the highway. She ran as fast as she could and sat on a corner where she thought of something deeply. She hugged the drum that she was carrying for five hours or so and tried to remain calm in the presence of the bad weather.

After half an hour, Nova came back with a pouch of medicine on her shaking hand. She handed it carefully to Juaning whose faith and hope were hanging to the tiny bottle of miracle.

Days gone by and my condition wasn’t going any better. It turned out that my medicine was consumed to the last drop. Still I remained immobile and my hands are going number by the days. Slowly I was losing hope. I wish they weren’t mad at me. I’m trying my best to live on. That’s why I’m still here. But Nova shared something worth listening to. She revealed how and where she got the medicine.

It was from a quack doctor on a stall put up on the corner of Rizal Avenue. She said he was well versed and very convincing. And that she spent all of our savings for a bottle of deception. But we can do nothing about it. We did not have formal education. We were fortunate enough to meet kind children on
the streets who would try to teach us something they have learned from school. We would attempt to read newspapers and the description in the carton boxes we spread beneath the Badelles overpass.

Nova cried in guilt and shame. Islay was still angry at her, and it can be understood. My sister, Juaning, comforted Nova with a promise that everything will get better in time.

December 27. It was my birthday. And more than anything else, what I wish is for the four of us to be happy. Nothing in this life is more important than seeing everyone you love smile with absolute
happiness. Juaning never forgot her job and that’s to buy me a cake. Every year, they will try to surprise me with every creative possible way. But that’s how their surprises become predictable with my age.

They sang me a birthday song. But this time, they were the ones waiting for a surprise. As my sister was about to hand me the cake waiting for me to blow the candle, she noticed something she was least expecting for. My lips are pale and my eyes are shut from the light of the world. I caught my last breath and before I gave it away, I left a smile on my face that can never be changed forever. That is how I want them to remember me. Not that heck of a frown clown whose audiences are stricken with sadness.

They say, in the wheel of life, sometimes, you'll spend half of your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the
bottom. Maybe they were right. It was then that I’ve come to understand what they were trying to say.

Our life’s wheel revolves around things way beyond just money, food, and shelter. It is about the moments you spend with your loved ones, friends and family that will be forever carved in your heart. We can never know when our life here on earth will be over. So let us cherish every bit of it. And for me, even if we skip breakfasts and eat only noodles for supper, I have realized in these last fleeting moments that my life has always
been on the top of the wheel after all.

The Easter Bunny came hopping,
Bringing his delightful corruption.
Of drugged candies and malicious toys,
Luring children into misrepresentation.

Armed men play an Easter hunt,
A trail of empty shells on their back.
Not of poultry eggs but deadly bullets,
As they enter forsaken cities to sack.

The Sunday of renewal has come,
But useless over the forest of stones.
Where hopeless and mournful souls,
Sat over thousands of crumbling bones.

1 Upon slumber, unfold thou faerie eyes,
2 Grab ye stardust, prepare thou soulful flight;
3 If in journey’s midst wrapped with nature’s guise,
4 Be not nimble less so to wane thou light.

5 Bright fireflies conspire to dim thee shadow,
6 As thou fleet bequeath pure enraptured plains;
7 Chanting rhymes, dryads cometh to follow,
8 Thou escapade to human cosmic vains.

9 Let our worlds converge on a rendezvous,
10 Where love’s verge proves true its life immortal;
11 A portal death’s call shall only endow,
12 A cycle of joy and fear revival.

13 Let our world’s loathe expire from our being,
14 Time nor death can’t hinder love’s revealing.

1 The zenith tempers warmth in hueful mist,
2 Of indigo splatters and crimson beams;
3 Wisps go flickering, zone of blossoms twist,
4 For art carnival of aesthetic creams.

5 Thee heart’s a-beating drunken symphony,
6 Conjures pure, shrill pounding acappella;
7 Cognating pulse on graceful melody,
8 An ensemble of forceful orchestra.

9 Thy sway tickles all dead integument,
10 Pressure’s on accord, feeble limbs awake;
11 Impulse enlivens every element,
12 An ecstatic cradle in every flake.

13 Nestle me lambent gal, don’t leave me be,
14 Thee orbs thou have enslaved wish not be free.

1 I beseech the night to bewitch the day,
2 That the latter suffice, employ her, charmed;
3 To seize her specter with illustrious ray,
4 Through his ember embrace her frost be warmed.

5 I pleadeth ye tide to transpire from sea,
6 So he may leak and she thirsts his substance;
7 When vapor drained she would surely seek he,
8 Whence but gush back will be cared with constance.

9 Permit this herculean love lose muscle,
10 And all strength from thy heart subside;
11 Implore thou mind to unknot this puzzle,
12 Patch them pieces, surge within thee collide.

13 Just as how Hades tangled Proserpine,
14 Our love’s fortune soon paint great self design.