A Manileña doesn’t mince her words.
She doesn’t sweeten up the bitter truth.
A Filipina’s words strike like a sword.
She would get down and ***** to the roots.
She could sing like an angel, easily join a heavenly choir.
But she could curse the devil, make him quiver and cry.
She could recite poems and prayers,
think of you during novena and death alike.
But she could also write your eulogy,
hold a funeral for you while you’re still alive.

My words shoot when provoked,
my poems heal when deserved.
My quill could ****,
my sword are my words.
My mouth could bring drought,
spit that could send you down to pits.

And even when I hate,
it’s out of care and love.
I know I’ll never lose a war.
And when I don’t feel the best,
I simply breathe, read, and take a rest.
And I write poetry, you can never **** or defeat me.

It’s up to youㅡwhat’s it gonna be?
You write and decide, should I heal or ****?