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Elmo Cross Dec 2018
Maraming tao ang nagtatanong
Bakit hindi ako nagsasawa sa kanya
Andaming taong nagtatanong
Ano bang meron at gustong gusto ko siya

Simula nung una ko siyang makita
Naramdaman ko na siya na
Siya na ang bubuo sa mundong kulang
Kulang ng kanyang ganda at kabaitan

Ganda niya ay bukod tangi
Tingin niya ay nakasasabik
Wala akong ibang gustong makita
Kundi ang kanyang matamis na mga mata

Hindi ko rin talaga alam
Kung bakit gustong gusto ko siya
Kung sa tutuusin
Ay marami naman ang mas maganda sa kanya

Siguro ito na nga ang pag-ibig
Hindi nakatingin sa panlabas na anyo
Ngunit tapat at desidido
Sa taong gustong **** maging kalaguyo
Minsan ako ay nagugulat sa aking pagiging tapat sa kanya. Kung tutuusin ay matagal na dapat akong nagkaroon ng ibang gusto dito sa unibersidad pero hinde. Mahal ko siya at patuloy akong iibig sa kanya hanggat sa mawalan na talaga ako ng pag-asa.
Jeff Santana May 2015
Babalik pa ba?
Ako pa ba'y aasa?
Na ikaw ay babalik kapag ako ay nag-antay

Kay hirap tanggapin
Na ngayon ay hindi ka na sa akin
Nakasandal, nakatabi buong magdamagan hanggang mag umaga

Ipaliwanag mo kung bakit ba
Dahil ako ay umaasa pa
Na ika'y mahagkan, makayakap
Muling makausap
Bawat sandali

At kung makita kang kasama siya
'Di maiwasan na ako'y manghina
Magmamanhid ang katawan
Gulong-gulo na ang aking isipan

Babalik pa ba?
Alam mo namang ikaw lang ang aking iniisip
Mula pag gising at pag-sapit ng dilim

Tila suntok sa buwan
Hinahanap ka kung san-san
Na lang ako napapadpad ngunit di ka parin matagpuan

Babalik pa ba?
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.

Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.    

Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Written for Anna Farinola

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