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If my heart’s a garden,
Dear, I do not want to plant seeds of love only to find out I’ve grown weeds instead of flowers.
My love, I refuse to shed my tears to water temporary beings---
I refuse to let my toil produce bitterness.

Stranger, if you have no intention to stay,
I humbly plead to you, please, please go away
Do not settle your roots on my plowed soil;
Such ground is being prepared for a season of joy

The tempest has passed, along with it the past has been washed
Away, far, far away to a land I’ll never have to know once again
My love, the clouds have cleared and the sky is a beautiful shade of happy blue
Dear, I beg of you.
Dust off the grays before entering this sacred place.

And, if, you see what you seek within me.
I ask you to please be calm,
when it seems as if I’m destroying beautiful things
that I’ve planted along the years.
My love, remember all this started from nothing.
And from nothing, from scratch I shall grow once again---
for even roses and lilies only live for a season

And, if, you choose to love me;
I ask you to hold my hand and nothing more
On my own, I will break my soil to make room for your
long kept dreams and when I’m all done,
I would embrace you, and sing you to sleep.
My love, I invite you to rest underneath this tree
This tree of life whose fruits I’ve reserved for you and you only
Look at how it stands tall and mighty; bearing on its trunks the scars of many
Love, I would not lie to you--- I’ve invited others to lay with me here too.
In naiviety and foolish thinking, I’ve trusted them with my secrets.
Only to find out they’ve turned it into axes.

My dear, look at how I nursed it back to health.
In hopes that one day I would share its sweet fruits along with you.

And, if, finally you choose to stay.
I pray that you would have the courage to choose me each and everyday
Not only when things are colorful and beautiful,
Not only when my garden is full of laughter
But even when thorns and bushes ***** your skin
and everything hurts like hell
Please, my love, do not abandon me once again.

For my whole heart is yours and yours for the taking.
“I love you” as easily as other girls do.
But I stutter and bite my tongue instead.
I wish I could say “I’m your princess”.
But I know I’m not.
You see other fathers have promised that they’ve got their daughter’s back; you said to kick-****.
I wish I could say you’re my protector, but you’re more than that--- you’re my commander.
Other girls had their father’s hands all throughout their “firsts”
First bicycle ride—you sat me down the chair and pushed it down the hill.
(Thank God I didn’t die.)
I wish I could easily talk with you and laugh with you like other girls can with their fathers
But I know I can’t, because somewhere along the way---we’ve misunderstood.
You had no father, and I can’t seem to find mine.
I’m sorry for that one drunken night
When I asked you if you loved my mother--- if you loved me.
When I whispered a daughter’s greatest insult: I wish to never marry a man like you.
You see, I didn’t understand how a father’s love can be:
So true and so pure.
Ever gracious and ever merciful.
I’m sorry for comparing and blaming you for what you’re not.
Always looking for something else.
But daddy, you’ve taught me a lot.
How fear and love can truly mix.
How tough love actually exists.
You’ve always claimed to be imperfect, but honestly, you’re the best for me.
not the most poetic poem but found it hidden in my "thoughts and random musings folders" HAHA thought I'd post it here bc why not?
They walk as if
As if they were alive
But not really, not quite—
Sure if they are
Or if they were
They stay afloat here and there
In the sea of endless seams
Bowels, underneath
Beware! Beware!
They play the siren’s wail
Of beauty and what-not
Of fragmented memories
That haunts and chants
Laughter; anger
Weep as weeping would be.
It doesn’t matter to me.  

Every bone looks the same in the cemetery
Bawat isa sa aking mga minamahal ay nagsilbing simbolo
Mga mata nilang palaging nakatingin
Sa kaluluwa kong nakaukit sa isang bituwin
Naninirahan sa malayong kalawakan, na hindi-hindi kayang abutin.
Paisa-isa silang lumalapit sa napakainit na mundong aking ginagalawan
Sumasayaw, nang-aakit.
Kumakanta, sumasabit
Sa mga libo-libong batong umiikot sa aking kalawakan.
May isang minahal ko dahil sa dula
May isa namang minahal ko dahil sa libro.
Isa namang minahal ko…dahil ipinakita niya ang totoo.
Dressed in black shadows
You may sense him but not see him;
As death, he’s more commonly known.
With eyes once so deep
A fool will certain fall
For his false prophesies and pretentious thoughts
He fancied himself once as a writer,
And as a painter—an artist himself he dared call
A self-made, self-proclaimed man… well, before.
The Wordsmith
He looked exactly like the type. A boy who would grow up to be a man married to a woman who would raise his beautiful children, three or five of them, would soon find himself facing a mid-life crisis. Bored and lost, he goes out to find himself---in the arms of another much younger, more beautiful woman. Finally finding what he has always been missing, he divorces his wife, blinded by the intense emotion he feels for the younger one.

He forgets--- they all forget that the youth are restless.
And he would soon find himself alone.

Watch out for the wordsmith. He comes in a distinct form. Hair unwashed for a day or two, beard long and over-grown; normally hunched with a hand underneath his chin, eyes luxuriously grazing through the pages of his book. In his bag a journal or a sketchpad, or maybe even both may always be found.

He is loyal to none but one: loneliness.

Beware of the wordsmith, his words will echo through the bowels of your mind after he has been long gone.

2. The Good-doer
He is perfect; the sort of fella that makes up every parent’s wet-dream. He would have graduated high school with honors, went home before his curfew, received a college-scholarship, and attends religious activities zealously.
You would see him for the first time in a congregation or talk of some sort, engaged in a deep conversation with a friend or two.
They might’ve been arguing about probabilities and theories; existential questions and what-not. You’d give him a second glance… or a third. You’d notice the book he holds and chat animatedly about it.
He’ll be amused, or in awe.
You won’t be quite sure which.
He’s the type who has never met a pretty girl who can hold intelligent conversation about books.

Raised well, he treats women politely and correctly, through and through a gentleman. But he secretly demeans them.

Stay away from this sort.

He’s bound to marry a trophy: a lady of the same background, who knows nothing but to raise children.
Five years down the road, you would see his picture-perfect family. They all happily walk out the doors of the church.

3. The Player
No. He is not a Casanova, not a smooth talker, not the Romeo. He is the man who never grew up. He is the one who is plagued with the Peter-pan syndrome, in constant need of stories and games. He will claim to need you—believe him. He does. Every baby needs its care-taker.
You would want to be needed the way he needs you. You would want to worry and fuss after him but you will tire, the way all mothers do.
Soon, instead of being thankful, he will grow weary of you. He will isolate himself in the bedroom. Playing endlessly the games you have gifted him; emerging from his cave from time to time—only when he’s ***** or hungry—never when you need him.

Years would pass him by.

He’ll realize how sad and lonely he has become.
One day, they’ll find him cold dead on the bedroom floor.

4. The Seeker
He knows what he wants and makes sure he gets what he wants. A top-notch business man, a CEO of some company; grew up in a rich family. This man knows what he wants and makes sure he gets what he wants.

Be sure you can’t be bought.

Lock your heart, for there lies your treasure. Treasure this dragon will surely devour.

5. The Savior*
He has always been there since Day 1.

You had never noticed... till *it was too late
It's not a poem, neither is it a short story.
My soul cries upon the Lord, seeking Him
Crying and searching my heart goes on lost
A dove with broken wings, love without a host
Hiding of shame, following every whim
Flew further away--- the nest dying: dim.
The skies are dark, the clouds hovering in
Despair! With rain and thunder pouring grim
Taking a turn, this will no longer be
The dove’s head held up high with wings restored
He takes her in His hands, loving her greatly
A tree is growing--- tower from her Lord
I see things clearer, my path unburied.
I am full of joy with my God adored
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