I write through the words I could not speak,
for every teardrop, lying on her lonely lips;
she is my sunset before night comes awake,
she is my poetry, in my dreams, when I sleep.

I write on the silence embraced by the night,
for every hope, foresee but strength to move;
I cast myself away from the shadows of life,
she is my poetry, in my eyes, when I love.

I write those heartaches she tried to seclude,
for every doubt, which ever maimed her feet;
she is a one perfect love story to be told,
she is my poetry, in my grave, on my death.

This is the last thing I'll let you know,
Before I say goodbye,
Before I let you go..

I forgot the reasons that brought on this end.
Wiped back the tears that I let fall.
Changed your title as my friend.
Unraveled your lies and figured it all.

I found the answers to the questions I had.
Spent all of my time trying to know you true.
It seems I, somehow, banished your bad.
I guess, it was because, I really did love you.

Now all I want, is for you to know,
Why I'm saying goodbye,
And why I'm letting you go..

I see your face through every crowd,
And within the moments you're not even there.
The silence became extremely loud.
It seems, I lost myself somewhere.

The knots in my stomach became undone.
As you continued to walk, in my mind, you grew small.
My journey backwards suddenly begun,
And I swiftly remembered it all.

The moment you had first taken hold of my hand.
Posed for a photograph with that crooked smile.
Times when, together, we would stand.
Or walk, if not even, for a single mile.

So this, my dear, I hope you know
I've said goodbye,
But I can't let you go.

I took back every single word I had ever said.
Tore out the chapters from the story of us.
Broke everything in sight, if only within my head.
Woke up one morning, and boarded that bus.

The glimmer in my eyes dimmed down slow.
I recanted the first smile that welcomed you that day.
Collected up the pieces of my heart, and decided to go.
I gave you one more look, and then turned the opposite way.

Akala mo di siya mawawala
Eto ngayon, umalis na siya
Akala mo maghihintay pa siya
Yun ang masakit, hindi na pala

Akala mo di ka mapapalitan
Ngayo'y may bagong nang kasiyahan
Akala mo ikaw pa rin ang mahal
Nagbabago pala habang tumatagal

Akala mo ganun pa rin
Hindi na pala, nagbago din
"Babalik pa ba o hindi?"
Alam mo naman sa sarili ****
*"Hindi"

The bombs already drop
in rhythmic succession,
brewing but little
condemnation.
Millions bleed the colour of soil -
impoverished by
rich mans toil.
But not a tear,
not a song is shed - unless,
they bleed the colour of
the dollar bill.

cheap perfume, dreadful news, i pay my dues while
miss drunk and deluded decides to trip all over my shoes
i'm her champagne flush, a nicotine rush, and her unrequited crush
but the only thing i ever notice is how the crowds hush

when you start humming tunes, singing blues, like you always do
your smile subtle, warm, holding far more joy than it ever used to
i sold your ring to the highest bidder, but my best friend actually likes you
he persuaded me to donate it all, it’s what you would've wanted me to do

so while tonight is all cheap perfume, dreadful news, and paying dues  
when miss drunk and deluded once again steps all over my poor shoes
it's easy to smile and stay calm because i'm drunk and deluded, too
and when i dance with my eyes closed, i am slow waltzing with you

O, that you were your self! But, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live.
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
    O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know,
    You had a father; let your son say so.

The human soul was threshed out like maize
   in the endless
granary of defeated actions,
   of mean things that happened,
to the very edge of endurance, and beyond,
and not only death, but many deaths,
   came to each one:
each day a tiny death, dust, worm, a light
flicked off in the mud at the city's edge,
   a tiny death with coarse wings
pierced into each man like a short lance
and the man was besieged by the bread or by the knife,
the cattle-dealer: the child of sea-harbours,
   or the dark captain of the plough,
or the rag-picker of snarled streets:
everybody lost heart, anxiously waiting for death,
   the short death of every day:
and the grinding bad luck of every day was
like a black cup that they drank,
   with their hands shaking.