"A great thing is coming, I can feel it"
Me? I can hardly believe it.
"I do think that it's very near"
I will have to see it when it is here.

She reassures me, "You will know soon too!"
But... could it really be true?
Is it what I feel? I've no clue.
"It is in here between us, me and you"

If it is what I think it is
And I hear the chime:
"I love you!"
Even when speechless, I'll still say:
"I love you, too!"

I’ve tasted the echoes of a flame; inhaling silhouettes of the night’s
smoke; wasting time under the clouds of downhill voices, speaking
low on my worth.Where I recall my mother’s voice as the sturdy
cane of discipline – as we read about disciples who were just
ordinary men; we were orderly raised, where being scolded a
third time about coming to bath at five, was just a part of our
ordinary days. My most trusted companions where the imaginary
friends I made up – who knew they'd get me in trouble, if I was
found talking to myself while I play.

And I don’t feel that old, but nostalgia has been resting on my soul;
the better parts of it, and also the worst – where I grew up with the
biggest fear around girls. Though part of that fear still remains, only
we changed the fear of girls, to a fear of falling in love with the
wrong girl. “But I love her though,” by that statement I'll know
I’ve definitely fallen underneath the floor.

I hardly questioned my flaws; until I grew a little order and started
to be so aware of them all – then I grew a little older, to soon realize
they’re all just a part of us all. And I don’t feel that old, even when
the wisdom I get isn’t always the same wisdom the youth can own –
still I hope their purpose is the one thing they can own.

I have to keep a piece of self-worth in my silver thoughts, interlaced
like a plait – even when I think up a few corny bars; I still see
myself as platinum. Signed here... a Platinum baby.

In a garden touched by morning's light,
Butterflies dance, a wondrous sight,
Each one precious, brave and free,
Bringing colors for all to see.

Some wings carry shadows past,
But their spirit shines to last,
Between roses and swaying trees,
They float upon the gentle breeze.

Watch them soar to touch the sky,
Each flutter shows their strength to fly,
Through storms they've found their way to peace,
Their beauty now shall never cease.

In this safe and sacred space,
They move with gentle, touching grace,
Every wing that dares to rise
Tells stories of sweet butterflies.

So let us guard this garden fair,
Where healing blooms in morning air,
For every butterfly should know
A safe place where their wings can grow.

Shattered shields; these many lowered defences;
Over the plains of a threshold over my doom
In person I’m broken down, in spirit I am laughing,
Speaking, singing; losing most of the space in time,
And the pieces of my body and mind; tasting the
Spectacular taste of defeat, in a sepulchre of a void

To my past, I am a ghost haunting it in memories –
Screaming at my younger self; but no sound is heard
Holding onto old flames of love; there lies my handful
Eating at my skin, ripping and tearing, until ash is my hold

I was born from mud, in this world made of dust –
The tears of heaven wet my dry skin into being;
The heat of the sun gave the warmth of love, and lust
Here, under this moss I placed my thumb to crush my flower
I was born a love poem with no real idea on how to love,
So, I sit quietly and wait, waiting for another loss in love
To have been in love, to find love again, is to understand
Your heart’s love; maybe there’s too much love in it
To fully understand it all at once; all too strong to hold!

spongey bones
ten little toes
not a single cry is heard.
i did not sing when
brought into this world.

bright blue eyes
grandfather in a tie
silent doctors grim and telling lies.
"we have no reason to believe
that she is in any pain"

twisted tendons
agony, unending
reshaping, like im made of clay
sterile tubes and lights
was all I knew, for so many nights

a macabre expanse
of leather and metal in a cruel dance
the clicking like the knell at my guillotine
fear strangling with cold hands
while the sheets witness suppressed sobs

she is not yet one
but her torture is not close to done.

change is the only constant
but being is open-hearted
& loving more.

i don’t want to be so
drunk
that i wake up in gun hill road.
home on new year’s day. 7 am.

for me, you can always reclaim a
sense of sanity
even in a time of chaos.

there are many things that
one
cannot reclaim.

why should i try?
if those things are gone…

did i need them in the
1st place?

self-worth comes back.
things get stolen.
for something
new.

inspired by tony labrusca's portrayal of josé rizal

babae likes me contained.
me—a tupperware full of lumpia.
i'm soggy, *****.
*****—inday—i'm gwapo. fried uy.

sorry. soggy.
druggy. sorry.

my chest tattoos?
yes, they can be removed.
will that be provided in my—

nevermind. thank you.
she opened her purse.
hard candy.

waving me away.
sorry carb-eating lad.
she is just ******* hard candy.
cgeh. babay. cgeh bi.

jose, they say you wrote novels.
but i wonder—
did you ever write yourself out?

did you watch your own ink
bleed into the soil?
did you wish for something softer?

in the way i am devoured. hero forgotten.
in the way i am swallowed
whole—one piso coin
by lovers, by history, by a name
they gave me before i ever
spoke too. ii