Ang nadarama'y isusulat,
Gamit ang aking plumang tanging panulat,
Sa bawat pagguhit ng letra,
kailanma'y hindi na magtataka pa,
ang pagsabay ng luhang pumapatak,
sapagkat ang puso'y may lungkot at galak.
Ang tangi lamang mithiin,
ay madama mo rin,
ang mga tulang isusulat na sa aking puso nanggaling.

He says he loves me.
But of all the poems he wrote,
none had me.

like a cat
i’m waiting for my owner
in my case, more gropes.
i am vain
i regularly conjure up poetry on my skin
do not give me yours.
i will recite every word to my last paper breath
so i can kid myself that paper is power.
my hands, are a canvas
canvas for anyone's ***** thoughts and ***** details
for if enough titles are painted on my body then perhaps
i will learn the complex trick
at trick of gaining depth.
and maybe the world will look as full.
as full and real as i
attest about it
read about it
dream about it
vision about it in books,
or dance with in music,
and maybe perhaps my edges will stop being ripped;
or my corners cut
or maybe my pages will not be burned and tossed aside.
true;
sometimes, i am this tiny
sometimes, i am this entangled
sometimes, i am this bonded
vulnerable, and judged by many
but also sometimes i am full of wonder

but right now, i am this.


|  i am paper and no wonder i like words |