Poetry is when you built me
only to break me down into words.
Art is when you ran to me
when you were breaking on your own.
I was a winning manuscript,
but you reduced me to bamboos and shells.
I was a renowned masterpiece,
but now I am one with my sands as I fell.
Poetry is when you wanted me
only to wash and wipe me out as I rose up.
Art is when you loved me
only to turn my back, letting you down.
Symphony is when you cried
only for me to cry harder, bow, and howl.
History is when we heard the gunshots
only did they replace our jokes and songs.
Revolution is the sound of the bombs
when I was asking for the truth for so long.

I used to be a place of worship,
my body used to be a temple
of what you used to call God;
remember when you prayed to him?
Now I am all but rubbles,
a ruin after a year of shambles.
I used to be where the choir sings,
I used to be the center, facing the town hall
of the place you used to control and reign;
remember how cold it feels like every fall?
Now in silence I will succumb,
I’d bury myself for an eternity of hush.
Now in secrets I am downed and numb,
I’d drown myself in waves of delayed rush.