The Internet arrived; they are confused
"Do not trust everything you read online!"
They warn us sternly, and even threatened
To take away and ban us from the computers
.
The technology advances, oh so, so very fast
Gone is the concept, of a single shared home PC
The smartphones, the laptops, the tablets etc.
Took the world by storm, and we are all amazed.
.
And then... Remember what those boomers told us?
About being skeptical and fearful of online information?
Guess what those hypocritical ******* are doing now!?
Fake news fake news fake news fake news fake news!
FAKE! NEWS!!!
.
You nonetheless heed their advice, and learnt fact-checking
Yet, gods forbid you try to "show off" with your evidence!
"Aiyah, I only forward what was shared to me. I'm just caring"
"It seems harmless, so what's the problem??"
My absolute favourite must be...
"Don't talk back to me! Don't you disrespect me! Be silent!
Don't try to show off how smart you are!
I ate more salt than you have eaten rice!
If you don't believe this, just shut up!"
.
Gods bless Asian parents
.
What to do... What to do...
#napowrimo #napowrimo2020 #fakenews #asianparents #poets #writers #poems #poetrycommunity #NationalPoetryMonth #false #asianpoets #poetry #factchecking #iamboey

Plumed Serpent/Fabled Phoenix/Rare Black Swan:
Let Poetry now shoot you from the sky;
Your sin, though trendy, shall no more rage on . . .
They’ll see you’re just a Dodo by and by.

You puffed and fanned, a dazzling Peacock Star
It’s high time you descended here to earth.
We see you for the Emu that you are:
Your gender, like your ***—assigned at birth.

I am said to be majestic
That my presence is blessed
Is it though? I question it
They say I symbolise eternity
As if... that is praiseworthy
They merely fear death, thus
They project their fantasies
Upon me, my "holy" flames
They know not, nor care
That I am cursed, forever
Cursed, I say! Cursed! Cursed!
.
Each time I cry in anguish
Hoping my tears are enough
To cool the flames of my soul
As my life painfully burns
Yet, you are confused
You actually believed
That there will be beauty
To arise from my ashes
.
This is a neverending cycle
Am I still me? Is the past real?
When this happens again
Will the new "me" still be me?
The best dreams I ever have
In which I am dying, truly dying
The end, the ultimate finale
I'm tired, I wish to rest
Sing me to sleep, then leave me
If this happens, if I break this cycle
Do not feel bad for me; know this
I will finally be free, to go home
And know true bliss and peace
.

Pwede ba, na sa bawat pag-gising
At bawat pagtibok ng puso habang pumapasok
Ang sinag ng araw sa aking bintana
Ay makakalimutan ka na?

Dala na ang kamao **** tila nakabalot
Sa aking pinunong dibdib
Na niyurakan at kumikirot dahil sa iyong
Mahigpit na hawak sa akin, pwede ba?

Sana nama'y makaligtaan na ang tono, huni, at nilalahad
Ng mga kantang noo'y sinasabayan pa ng ating
Mga tawa, padyak, hiyaw, galaw
Balang araw, sana nga.

Maaari bang itapon na ang papel na naglalaman
Ng mga nais ko sanang ipahayag sayo noon
Kasabay na ang mga kasinungalingang binulyaw mo sa akin gamit ang mga letrang padala mo
Ako'y pagod na.

Pagod nang magparamdam, makiramdam
Makaramdam ng purong pagdamdam
Na alam kong kailan ma'y hindi mo na mararamdaman
Tama na.

Kung maaaring mawalay na
Sa pagkapit sa mga matatamis na salitang
Ibinulong mo sa akin habang inaambunan tayo
Ng sinag ng buwan sa gabing kay liwanag.

Sana'y matuyo na ang mga nasayang na luha
Noong sinabi ko sayo na ika'y aking minamahal
Na kung saan binalik mo sa akin nang mas malutong, mas mabulaklak
Pero putangina, puro lang pala dada at walang kahulugan!

At noong dinagdagan mo pa ng mga pangakong
Pagmamahalan at pagsusuyuan sa ating unang pagkikita
Ay halos sumalangit ako sa tuwa at galak
Pero sa init at pait ng impyerno mo pala ako binagsak.

Gusto sana kitang tanungin
Kung naaalala mo pa ba lahat ng ating mga talumpati
Kung papaano natin nahanap ang ginhawa at katiwasayan
Sa mata ng isa't isa, oh aking minimithi.

Sinubukan kong uminom ng kung anu-anong likor
Na sa sobrang dami ay halos napuntahan ko na siguro
Lahat ng barikan na aking nalalaman
Para lang maialis ka sa isipang ikaw lang ang nilalaman.

Subalit, imbes na ika'y maglaho sa kuro
Ay mas naalala ka sa mga malulungkot na gabing
Nangangamoy alak at naglalasang halik mo
Tulad noong unang gabing hinagkan mo ang nag-iinit kong noo.

Ngayon, ika'y masaya na at kuntento
Sa piling ng taong sinabi mo sa akin na huwag alalahanin
Hindi mo lang alam kung paano ko pinilit ang aking sarili
Na tanggapin lahat ng iyong isinaksak at binaril sa puso kong siil

Tila tintang nakamansta sa puting palamuti
Na di maalis-alis kahit gaano ko man kuskusin
Ang memoryang nakalaan para sayo sa aking isipan at damdamin
Kay hirap nang hubarin at tanggalin

Siguro ako'y itinuring lamang na isang kagamitang
Pwedeng itapon matapos pagdiskitahan ng mapaglarong tadhana
Na noo'y pinaniwalaan at naging pamanhik ko
Sa sandaling itinahi na ang pangalan mo sa nagdurugo kong puso

Pero, sa huli, kinailangang limutin
At iparaya ang damdaming nakakulong parin
Hanggang ngayon sa yakap ng iyong bisig
At himbing ng mga talang tila patalim sa gitna ng dilim

Sana'y natuto na ang sariling pag-iisip
Na hinding-hindi magpalinlang sa mga matatamis na awit
Na pinuputak ng bibig na ang may ari ay
Walang espasyo sa kanyang isip at puso para sa akin.

Aking nawalay na sinta
Maaari bang ika'y pakawalan na?
Para sa atin—o baka sa aking kalayaan at kasiyahan nalang
Pwede ba, kakalimutan na kita?

Huddled in your castles like Prospero’s doomed revelers, sighing in the springtime of contagion, you evade and avoid the obvious. But the Muse has entered, unseen, and stands among you in her mask of elegiac splendor. She smiles as you mock her presence. She laughs quietly to herself as her influence wafts upon the very air, inspiring and infecting all concerned. You try to protect yourselves from the lyric epidemic, nonetheless her viral poetic molecules go forth, regroup, mutate, and attach themselves to the souls of her detractors. Her spores hang upon the very droplets of the mist, a suspended Parnassian miasma. The first tremors of poetic sickness begin to shudder deep within and among the most reluctant revelers. They try to dispel their fears; they brag and congratulate themselves, chattering about the uselessness of poetry, listing all they ways in which they have successfully barricaded themselves from her pestilential presence. But the Muse has entered and none can ensure her departure. Poetry will have her way and resistance is futile. Some will survive, but others will meet her as their avenging angel of the plague, and neither Egyptian magic nor sanitizing legerdemain shall deter the blossoming vector of her influence. Fear, oh unpoetic readers, this sudden lyrical acceleration, this verdant celebration:

               our poetic coronation.