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Daig ko pa yata ang mga supporting roles sa mga pelikula. Kayo ang bida, at ang ako itong sumusuporta sa inyo na walang katapusan. Walang katapusang pagbulagbulagan. Walang katapusang sakit ang nararamdaman ko. Palaging pinipilit ang sarili na hindi mahulog para sayo. Palaging pinipilit sa isipan na ikaw ay para sa kaniya at siya ay para sayo.

Ngunit kahit anong pilit kahit anong pigil sa damdaming ito, bakit nahulog parin? Bakit di ko mapasokpasok sa loob ko na hindi tayo. Na ako ay ang supporting role lamang. At kayo ang binda. Siya ang leading lady at ikaw ang leading man.

Mabuti pa nga sa mga pelikula, at least merong ka partner ang female supporting role. Pero ako? Ikaw lang ang nasa paningin. Ikaw lang ang gustong yakapin. Ikaw. Ang kaisaisang bagay na di ko kayang makuha. Isang bagay na di para sa akin.
exist Mar 30
you must lose yourself in order to find yourself
Kara Jean May 2016
Party like a rock star
Pretend to be elegant and wear sundresses
Remember to smile and wave at the desperate housewives, I choose to offend
I'm inconsiderate
My charismatic side makes up for everything
So ******* a kiss and flirtatious wink
I will ignore the fact you have a plastic grin
I hate to say it, love you're not my friend
Hey, don't worry I will do this again
Contaminated, I hope to infect the ticky-tack world
Please don't vanquish my plot of sin
Don't forget to bring a bikini (optional) and gallon of whiskey
La Girasol Feb 22
She has a name.

After all, she has a titular role.

Sometimes, she'll go by other names. My personal favorites are Anger, Sadness, A Filter, Pretending, Comparison, Expectations, Faking It, Perfectionism, and Silliness, amongst others.

But one day, she whispered her name to me, so softly that I thought it was just the wind.

"My name is Grief... my name is Grief" she repeated to me.

I cried at the weight of her words.

For I already knew her name, but I didn't want to believe it. But there it was, out in the open. Vulnerable and real.

Some days, I slam and lock the door in her face, ignoring her knocking.
Other days, I don't even bother to get up as she steps lightly into the room.

I hope someday to give her a hug and thank her for her years of wisdom and hurt, and how the two are inseparable.

There's something else too. She told me it the other day, under the too-long absent winter sun as I wept once more.

"I'm your sister... I'm your sister" she whispered, gently and lovingly.
To hard days & sad days & winter days & bad days & dark days & all days that feel endless. I am here. And I am alive.
The "My name is Grief" idea was inspiration from Pinterest. Credits to original author.
malluraeh Mar 24
After one year of isolation,
I finally realized
the role of real friends,
in our lifes.
Harley Hucof Oct 7
So much to take to vibrate in higher states
To liberate what you must pay.
I try to make myself see,
I find emptiness in an invisible sea.
Held, blind, my eyes are not mine,
But the truth is clear ,
But my lips are sealed,
Anyway there is no one to hear.
While i am connected i am leaving symbols maybe someone will read for me my roles.

Words Of Harfouchism
Kitty Jun 2
And you know
Theres nowhere to go
And you ask
What is your task
Then again
Why must it rain
When you know
That it is snow
In your soul
And you are a role
For the whole
~May the words always be by your side!~
Bleurose Dec 2018
I do not come to you with the usual platitudes
Things you have heard numerous times before
Though perhaps my arrogance stretches far and these words have reached your ears many a time.
How am I to know.

I would ask you, to save me.
There is no need to take any action, just keep shining.
You taught me, or rather, finalised the lesson - when my fathers should have - that you can be as fantastical as you want to be. You do not grow old, your body does.

Thank you for reminding me that I'm still growing and that there is Hope for me.

But if your light were to go - I suppose I would still live - but life would be so much darker.

Thank you for smiling when you can - I of all people know there are rainy days.
What binds me to the sacred land,
Blessed the cordial chains brought upon me,
The burden of one, to hand over such dignity,
Blessed those who look down in such amiableness,
Oh please! Hand me the certificate of my soul, as if it was never mine.
Hg Oct 2018
she was quite the actor
always on a role

lights camera affection
putting on a show

she was quite the model
never had to pose

every lie a candid
such a natural
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
Either be like a human
Or choose to act dead

No more
Genre: Micropoetry
Theme: Dead never dream, never hope and never feels emotional.
Let's Live.
In as much as I tamed the Infidel
Baptism pokes her Holistic White Tongue
Such that if you try to flip the Role-Model
For which Hypocrisy had said and done
You do not know me. If Duty must care
And stand accused tackling my Man to like
Your Mass does not shrink me; And if you dare
Take a Pied Contest and taste the First Strike
Yet in fairness your Swan-Form does exist
As billed by Tom's Twin circled in craft
Now may I come in? Or should I resist
And Boot my *** on the Beach by the Draft?
Those Stripes were hostile from a Few Years Past
Enjoy Iberia Minor; Healing can last.
annh Feb 22
'My life is over, it’s completely over!'
My granddaughter sobs inconsolably into my best linen handkerchief.
‘I’ve made s-o-oo many mistakes. Why can’t things be the way they used to be?’
She clutches my gnarled liver-spotted hand, with its swollen joints, and old gold.
‘You do understand, don't you, Nana?'
‘If youth knew; if age could.’
- Sigmund Freud
Knit Personality Mar 2016
I pay respects to Mrs. Claus,
    Samaritan extraordinaire,
The modest queen of Christmastide
    And the north wind and arctic air.

Her role she never boasts, and yet,
    The muse and glory of her spouse,
The great goodwill that Santa shares
    Begins in her and in her house.

She never boasts the good she does,
    And very few have known truth
That children all across the world
    Prepare for her each new lost tooth.

For Mrs. Claus, she wears two hats;
    And when those kids with little paws
Count up their coins, they know she came—
    The "Tooth Fairy", or Mrs. Claus.

* .
Do I have a tongue,
Can I speak too?
In this strange world,
Am I a human too?

Do I have a heart,
Can I live too?
In this strange land,
Am I alive too?

In the midst of Oblivion,
I search my visions,
I once used to dream,
As a young teenager,
In Sea of Paro s
I try to remember,
The faces of people
I had once lived with
Father, mother, brother
Of all those people
I had once called family.

I came here as girl,
I am shared in the family,
I born plenty children,
I am sold and re-sold
In and around
To any men who
Can afford to buy,
I am kept but
Seldom married,
Each street have
it's own paro,
They all have
But the same story.

After some years
I cease to exist,
For the people
Who bought me
I am an old cattle
Who no longer
give them pleasure,
I am now a burden
A liability soon
To be shedded..

They don't throw
me though,
They leave me alone
In a small room,
I have become a mother
Of a girl or two
I have new family
But no identity
fits me ever,
When I come here
I became a Paro,
When my times up
I die a Paro!!

Paro is short for
Pardesi, a foreigner,
I am the girl
Bought for men
From another land
Into there land,
To born son's
For there motherland.

This is ordeal of
A soul that once lived,
Now it's just a body
With no role,
No fiction this
It's a real story
A reality of some
Distant land !!

That land for you
Is so very strange
Where eight young man
**** a pregnant goat!
And the strangest
thing is they
go away and
Roam scot free..!!

Soon the elders in the village
Will have a big meet,
They will give compensation
To the owner of the goat,
And free from the sin
There precious young boys
The martyred goat
Will also have new name,
And so it will soon
Be christened to
A new species of
a first of it's kind
A Welcome from
an animal world!!

And so I ask again
Do I really exist?
What form of life
Do I have here?
In this strange land
Are they human too??
Does even a little atleast
A thing called
Humanity exist???

Sparkle in Wisdom.

Wrote this poem after reading this article.
Paul Mar 13
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. Yellowed walls speak
of anxieties inscribed by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco neatly describes
their spiralling tumult. She has gone back
into the world. And alone in their aftermath
he inhales as one grown distant in a moment
emptied of heroism. The sheets, worn and short,
rope round his ankles to recall a cellblock noose.
She'd done time, and for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, all ***, silent
and work-like. It was a thing they laughed about.
                                                                ­     He drew
deeply, and a ring of orange fire bloomed, briefly
proclaiming love remained a chance. Who
could know? Once upon a time he owned
more answers than emptinesses. A rhythmless
rock and swing of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, inhaling blankly.
The opened window, emptied of music, framed
a flawless field of sky blue nothingness
through which, into the parking lot,  its curtains
billowed like some wild tongue. And under
the window, in shadowless heat, a dog laps,
limp with thirst, at the drips that drip
from a rusty pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
jeffrey conyers Sep 2012
Those good old days of youth.
Teachers were to be respected.
Not to be attacked.
One ounce of disrespect to them.
You soon was facing your parents.
Yes, those were the good old days.

The church wasn't truly a choice.
Well, maybe for daddy it was.
But under mama rules.
You owed respect to the one that created you.
The good old days.

Respect was cherished art.
It was something those good parents taught.
Even if the adults were wrong.

And you best not try to talk back.
Because you had to be re-taught respect.
Parents weren't trying to be your friends.

You were educated on where friendship ends.
And the role of parents begins.
And with them.
You weren't going to always get your way.

Well, maybe when you sick.
Because parents become carings kids.
You get cake and ice cream when ill.

While if healthy.
You had to eat your dinner.
And hope they don't forget this offering deal.

Oh, the good old days.

You had a time limit to be in.
The street lights bet not come on.
And you're not in the yard.
This when parents went hard.
Lectures and sermons to last for days.
Punishments, I won't begin to say.

Remember, these the parents of the good old days.
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