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Kelly Bitangcol Feb 2018
The people in my life are the ones who choose my lover. They gather around every 6 years, telling each other’s choices; sometimes uniting, sometimes not. You would see people arguing, saying that her choice is better than hers, saying that his choice won’t bring any good to me. However, all these arguments don’t matter in the end because in this situation, majority always wins.

I once had a lover named Mark. I will never forget my life with him. My life was filled with his austereness back then, he would always it’s for my own sake. He told me that he loved me so much, that he would do everything for me. Mark was showing signs of abusiveness that people noticed it. He made sure that the people who update our relationship would be careful, or in other ways would not criticise him and just shut up. So he abolished them and made them lose their jobs. The criticism became wider and wider, more people decided to speak up and stand against him. Mark hurt everyone who opposed of him, torture them in different ways. My children got *****, the brave ones got killed, those who fought were imprisoned, and he was stealing everything that I have. He told everyone he loved me, but he did nothing but ruin me. He left me with a wound that will never ever be healed.

People told me to move on and forgive him, but how can I move on from something that wasn’t resolved? How can I forgive him when he wasn’t apologetic of what he did, instead he was proud of it. How can I forget something that caused people to die, families be apart, my life getting stolen, and the destruction of myself?

Decades went by, people chose a new lover for me. His name is Drew, and people say he remind them of Mark. Both stern, tough, and claim they want the best for me. Drew admired Mark, and he did the similar things. He silence people who criticise him, treat women like pieces of meat that aren’t meant to be respected, **** the victims of poverty instead of helping, take the lives of innocent people away and describe them as collateral damages. He also tells all of these things are for the betterment of me. People suddenly forget our history, people continue to admire Mark and Drew and even call them my best lovers of all. They tell the people, "Love is sweeter the second time around." A wound that was never healed shows again, my body is filled with stains from the pains of the past and the present.

Yet people who love me continue to fight to fight for me. Doing everything that they can to stop things from happening again. Slowly fixing my wound and never letting it open again. You would see them on the streets shouting, or on the internet rambling. They would always ask me, “What is happening to you?”

Thousands of questions, hundreds of voices, and all those addressed for one only.

“Didn’t you learn from the past?”
“Do you want the worst for yourself?”
“Do you want your place to be filled with blood and violence?”
“You just never learn.”


They reached for me.
they shouted my name.
I was called Philippines,
*by the way.
Pearson Bolt Jan 2018
instagram-famous
action hero. lean back and
relax lay-z-boy.

armchair activist,
keep the sofa warm while you
raise a Twitter storm.

ivory tower
intellectual, trapped, a
tepid state-of-mind.

self-righteous ethos
sapped of the courage to join
us. predatory—

you‘re too obtuse to
realize your abuse has scarred
wrists and ruined lives.

we’ll leave you behind,
but not before i cut my
knuckles on your teeth.
For all my friends and comrades who’ve been abused by the tools who use radical politics as a way to prey on women.
The only note I took from yesterdays class was “the western governments failed to do anything about it” and that really drove home for me how transferable and different yet identical ongoing war is. WW1, WW2, Iraq, the syrian war.

I don’t know where poetry sits in all this. I think poetry without action is like theory without praxis so I to an extent I don’t really care what poetry is or should be in regards to war. There is a limit to what the written word can do in terms of changes the course of things and influencing people, it’s not nothing but it’s also not enough. The recognition of the limitation or inadequacy of the written or spoken word is demonstrated in how many poets are activists, they know speaking or writing alone is not enough.

I think poetry can be fuel, nourishing, provoking but then it’s like what are you gunna do about it? Western politics, particularly liberalism seems to have gotten it’s wires crossed somewhere along the line and some people seem to believe that talking about and reading about things is enough, that think pieces can actually change things and help people in of themselves.

I think the most poetry can be is a starting point, a seed, but what are you gonna do to grow it further?

I think poetry can be a call to action, and a call to action shouldn’t be read as a metaphor, take it literally and answer the call.
KRRW Aug 2017
Batong niluluto, tinutunaw, tinuturok
Dahong sinisinghot, hinihithit, pinapausok
Dukhang nahuhumaling, hinuhuli, pinapatay
Mayamang sinungaling, tumatakas, kumakampay


#ChangeIsComing ngunit wala namang binago
Ang mahirap ay tumba, ang mayaman ay nagtago
Inosenteng nadadamay, diniktan ng karatula
Bangkay na nakahandusay, hindi na bibigyang hustisya.


Halina,
doon sa bago kong tahanan
Ang tawag ay kulungan
ngunit marami do'ng libangan.


Pinuno,
leader ako ng sindikato
Kung tawagi'y bilanggo
ngunit sinusunod ang luho.


Mga alipin ko'y parak
Mg bataan ko ay trapo
Pamilya'y bilyonaryo
Ang negosyo'y protektado.


Unlimited supply—'yan ang tunay kong pangako
Subok kong mga suki, wala pa rin namang nagbago
Tuloy lang ang bentahan, dito tayo sa taas
Ngunit tatandaan: kikitilin lahat ng Hudas.


Ako'y panginoon at walang katalo-talo
Agimat ko ay tsapa, baril ang gamit kong rosaryo
Ako ang humuhuli sa sarili kong buntot
Ang mahina **** kokote ay aking pinapaikot.
Written
27 September 2016


Genre
Rap  | Spoken Poetry | Literactivism

Copyright
© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.
KRRW Aug 2017
Gusto ko ring
maranasang makulong
para naman
magka-thrill
kahit kaunti
ang buhay kong
napaka-boring.


Pero gusto kong
makulong
nang walang
ginagawang
anumang
krimen.


At a loob ng kulungan
ay pabahuan
ng hininga,
kili-kili,
puwet
at singit;
paramihan
ng libag sa leeg,
tinga sa gilagid,
kalyo sa labi,
at tartar sa ngipin.


Doon na rin
masusubok
ang aking
pagiging
best actor
sa pagkukunwaring
makadiyos ako
sa pagdadala ko
ng banal na libro
sa lahat ng oras,
minu-minuto
upang parolya
ay aking matamo
at kinabukasan
ay laya na ako.


Hustisya
ay kaydaling
laruin,
sistema
ay kaydaling
butasin,
buong kuwento
ng aking tula
ay uulit-ulitin.
Written
09 July 2016

Genre
Rap | Spoken Poetry | Literactivism

Copyright
© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.
axr Jul 2017
well there goes another parade,
we're now marching with rainbows on our bodies and hashtags on our face
our roars pierce the skyline as the guns fire
bang! bang!
another bullet
in our direction
another life lost
and now we have a new sensation
young man murdered for a skin colour he didn't choose
young man murdered because 'he seemed like he was from the hood'
young man shot dead for following the rules

hashtags flooding twitter, photo sets on tumblr, double taps on instagram and likes on facebook
debates firing up and questioning the truth
we're marching
with the names of the dead carved on our skin
girls murdered for loving girls and boys murdered for loving boys,
a girl being murdered because she no longer wanted to be a boy.

we're crying,we're laughing,we're screaming and we're dying
and now the walls are covered in our writing
because we will never stop fighting
guess who's back
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