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Each hour
passes as in a day.
First,
second,
third
it began.
Now,
Saturday,
soon Friday again.
If only the dreaded days
are kinder,
less hostile
to the mind.
If only
memories fill pages - -
A trip, a nightout,
a conversation
while traversing
unknown streets at night.
But days have become
prayers uttered
with every breath,
with nights far longer
and more threatening
in one's isolation.


I think about the city lights
as souls.
Do not die out, do not die out,
I cry into the night.
My breath I lift up
as incense to the Sky.
I pray for flickers
that are not consumed.
I ask for less stars
in the heavenlies
and more hopeful
ones in the Metro.
I poke at Venus now.
I tell her:
Dispense your warmth.
Let it glow within us.
She is beauty
but she mocks.


050220
Written on a night when the moon shone so beautifully, so much so that it felt like she's mocking our circumstance.
aya May 16
you look happier
without these ragged edges
overlapped colors
smudged painting
as i paint you
without my touch
its been a while since i posted something here,, ngl ms rona ***** HSBHUFHU
Bea Aguilar Apr 20
It feels like we are in a movie.
A disaster one.
Everyone is dying and we don’t know who’s next.
However, some can already predict it.

The only difference between a disaster movie and of what’s going on in the world now is that we can do something.
We can help the people who are evidently in need.

WE CAN DO THIS.
LET’S START NOW.
ECQ *****

— The End —