#casualty
Wagas ang paglilingkod
Sa bayan niyang sinisinta.
Nagsilbing pananggalang
Ng mga sugatang paa.
Walang pag-iimbot
Na hatid ang bawat galaw.
Katapatan niya'y 'di matinag
Sa baluwarte niyang saklaw.
Siya ay anak-dalita
Kaya may puso sa maralita.
Hinirang dahil may bilang
At hindi lang puro salita.
Maaga man ang paglisan
Habambuhay magmamarka
Bansag na "Reyna ng Tsinelas"
Na kanyang naipinta.
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 2:41 AM UTC
i think he was a delivery guy
building four, number 2
across the walk
a moped with one of those
cage attachments
for carrying food
or packages
or whatever
one time i brought over a
loose hammer found near
his bike and caught a
glimpse through the door
gray couch,
folding chairs,
table full of wires
nothing out of the ordinary
same layout as ours
white Hats barreled in
before we could react
the dog was first
then my brother
then me
guess they had some bad intel
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 10:35 AM UTC
<|>
for some time,
in these troubled moments,
midst the uprooted formless firmament
where rawest poems come from,
and the saddest gentled, go to die,
colloquially a place, a space,
we call,
time
in these, them days of lockdown quarantine,
time has lost its preeminence,
the swagger of precision-swiss-definition
of the imposing measuring stick of
routine
is lost to that very
formless firmament
we look at each aghast,
with wild puzzlement faces,
inquiring of each other,
“what day of the week is it?”
the eavesdropping, spying voice of this device
answers,
“see the upper left corner”
which is kind of a miracle
but not nearly as amazing that
a few hours later,
or some time span of an approximate relevancy,
(we assume,)
we ask each other, once more,
in a reverie of hopelessness,
with total no-pretense of the
when,
no, worse,
the frightening pointy needlessness of
why
it matters
“*dearest darling,
pray, pray,
what day of the week is it?*”
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
What are we doing?
Our words are growing quieter
Our touches strained
Our hearts building a small wall each day
Hurting it's hands pushing the bricks and material together without us even knowing
Why are we here?
It's like there's something in our minds still fighting tooth and nail for a war nobody believes in anymore and our bodies are just following along
Maybe it's time this war came to an end
I don't think either of us want to deal with the casualties of our love dying along with our hope
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
surrender and defeat,
my fated causality,
by mine own hand done in,
'twas the death I ordained,
when to the addiction of ego,
I did, did I,
concede and become another casualty
by mine own mind
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
A handful of dust, immortality
A portrait to age, immorality
A hungry lust doth consume, apathy
A conscience driven mad, insanity
Narcissistic soul buried, casualty
The capturing of youth, causality
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 9:01 AM UTC
There’s residue on my torso, dark twisted and tainted by blood.
I’ve seen this once before, convinced that I would never be here again
The aesthetics are casualties of war.
I’ve lost control of the cannon in my chest.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
-
-
Blast was/is /will
Never be
Music of my choice.
-
-
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:55 AM UTC
i
tried
to hurt
myself
and
explained that
i
didn't
mean it
i
looked
in her
eyes
and see
that
the knife
didn't
only pierce
my flesh
but also
her soul
-i am not the only casualty
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
Today's another illusion, another dissolution with my reality
A casualty of war; a mind that can't handle sanity
The thoughts of thought long forgotten, independent
Exceeding all that was perceived, a unseen precedent
Of minds throwing thorns at the throats of lost children
Dreams of a crippled life of being hidden
That ripple beyond the dead sun and burdened eyes
We finally see nothing beyond the lies;
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
The water rises,
as my nose dives in,
into this fear that's growing,
but yet not showing.
I soon will be drowning,
not coughing on water-
but yet choke on fear-
as I've awoke the fight or flight within-
that feels like the punishment of all my sins,
it seems to last forever,
wish upon this to another-
I would never,
for it is torture,
I know nothing more sure-
than how horrible it is to be stuck within yourself
in the midst of its own war,
I feel the end coming deep in my core.
And I-
will be the only casualty.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
Philosopher once said
“Everyone is involved in constructing their own world!”
But what I will construct..... ?
Listen!
“At that time,
We are playing in the courtyard,
My sister cooking on Coconut cell
I was a fisherman, catching fish
( it was a world of imagination where sand were the rice
Leaf of pumpkin were the fish)
All of a sudden father’s voice is come in
He is running towards home from the field
and outcry “again it is coming, get out and
Let’s go to main road”;
My mother was almost pasty,
Elder sister pick up important things in a bag
along with some utensil;
In a moment all of we run towards the main road,
When we reached there it was full of fallow villagers
My father searching for my uncle in the crowd
and get him;
He took us to a corner along the side of the road,
It was small shed made out of plastic sheet;
Uncle said to ‘now we have to stay here until normalcy come down’;
We sit on the floor with my sister,
Mother and aunt both are crying,
Father is looking towards the habitat;
Water flowing in..... everything immerse.....
Only the areca nut tree and bamboo indicates
Where our home was;
All of we are waiting for the moment to water goes out
This it is second time in the year,
Last year it was once,
Year before last year my younger brother was washes out;
.......................
‘Can you tell me how we stop this?’
‘Whether I will create my world far from the river or construct a wall?’
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 3:03 AM UTC
Lately, I spend my free time imagining how I'd look at a funeral.
I've been before, but all I felt was discomfort and splintering hatred.
What if you died. My darling, I'm afraid I wouldn't change.
I'd go and stare at the wall, the floor, the people who don't know you.
Dry eyes and a judgmental, lethargic gaze settled in.
I never cried in front of you, why would cry in front of them.
I'd watch as the flag was presented, uniforms marching by the coffin.
Perhaps this would be different. I think my hatred would burn a bit brighter.
Those who ordered your death, now dictating your burial. They don't love you. They don't care.
All you are is one more casualty. One more insignificant ant being squished underfoot and forgotten.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Like having casual tea with a casualty,
you’re boring me to death.
Can you stop wasting air talking
of your last breath?
While heartlessly seeming,
while your heart’s still beating
you should put your pulse to use
For each song cannot function without a beating heart
And a beautiful one we’d lose
Do you want to have your sheet music
buried under sheets,
never to be seen nor heard nor felt
or even worth caring?
Let beauty flow through sorrowed songs,
with every breath you take
don’t bore us all to tears with such a
fatal mistake.. If life you take..
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Yesterday, I sat on the shores of Acheron.
It was before christ or maybe British Columbia hard to tell, my lens was clouded
The mushrooms were telling a story.
Do you know what story they told me?
The truth hurts cause the truth comes from the ******** of bovine
And we are all bovine … some sacred … some dinner … some just simply cows
And I wish I had bovine spongiform encephalopathy
At least then I would have an excuse for being a mad cow or raging bull
Either/or, a **** machine is a good thing for this world
Because: mushrooms.
You have to go in through the out door
And Frost told us long ago “The only way out is through”
And Rogan gives this knowledge away in the aether via Amber.
So what does the gateway into the **** have to say to me?
We are the monsters under the bed. The spectre’s lurking in the closets
And Yahk, BC is the place where answers get spewn out in chunks and spurts.
I thought the only way into the underworld was Grecian.
But a warrior poet knows the way,
And Chris would always and in all ways die for Bella.
Cause what is an eternity without your One
It is eternal damnation
So across the river our hero goes.
He slays everything in his path, beast or brethren
Now the illusion is destroyed
The underworld is deceased except for one.
Residing in the mirror lives the final causality
Casualty?
Only if you want out.
And out is through
So you destroy the Self - id, ego, super-ego … you decide
Covenant in disarray.
And what is born out of it?
The river styx no longer
But instead … the river phoenix
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.
But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.
If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.
Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.
We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.
We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.
People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.
Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?
"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC