By Donnie Lomat
alienated by the
happy faces around you,
a sudden longing for intimacy pierces your soul.
it permeates
and takes you on.
like letters left for dead.
Showing posts with label South. Show all posts
Showing posts with label South. Show all posts
Fragments: Insipid
By Donnie Lomat
pouring over sentiments
lasting far beyond the night,
we were lost in the sea of existence.
the vastness engulfs us,
a cacophony of being and nothingness
for which we allude to the sky an uncertain peace.
seeking solitude in your eyes,
a one-sided love affair
with the hollow.
crashing down on our lungs,
the light betrays our lies.
we are but shadows playing god.
pouring over sentiments
lasting far beyond the night,
we were lost in the sea of existence.
the vastness engulfs us,
a cacophony of being and nothingness
for which we allude to the sky an uncertain peace.
seeking solitude in your eyes,
a one-sided love affair
with the hollow.
crashing down on our lungs,
the light betrays our lies.
we are but shadows playing god.
Fragments: Seemenot
By Donnie Lomat
i was not expected.
still confined in the shadows,
dearth of being.
a mere miscalculation.
you can relax now.
i was not expected.
still confined in the shadows,
dearth of being.
a mere miscalculation.
you can relax now.
Anhedonia
By Donnie Lomat
drunk from sorrow
of false hopes
and stupid smiles.
a breakdown of sorts.
i can’t feel my hands
anymore.
numb and sore.
from fighting.
from giving in.
disrupted.
and folded up.
like forlorn.
drunk from sorrow
of false hopes
and stupid smiles.
a breakdown of sorts.
i can’t feel my hands
anymore.
numb and sore.
from fighting.
from giving in.
disrupted.
and folded up.
like forlorn.
Discordia
By Donnie Lomat
i.
stick to the sidelines
for a change,
and wait
for the lines to converge.
a slow descent to nothingness.
ii.
chain-smoking all the
hurt, and
out of reason.
indifference rules us all.
with thy pulse turned to
pulp, and
blue all over.
you remain heedless
and never.
iii.
in effect, an
unwanted dichotomy.
i.
stick to the sidelines
for a change,
and wait
for the lines to converge.
a slow descent to nothingness.
ii.
chain-smoking all the
hurt, and
out of reason.
indifference rules us all.
with thy pulse turned to
pulp, and
blue all over.
you remain heedless
and never.
iii.
in effect, an
unwanted dichotomy.
Sumasagi sa Tanikala
By Raissa Azarcon
Unti-unti, dahan-dahan
Ang mga daho’y naglalaglagan
Bumibitaw, kumakalas
Sa tubig lumalagaslas
Nahagip ng tingin, ‘di man salaminin
Parang alikabok na sumasabay sa hangin
Mga tikom na halimuyak sa aking paligid
Mga ilang-ilang na nakapinid
Wala nang natira pang bakas
Mga yapak at yabag na kay lakas
Mga luhang naparam
Mga pares ng matang nahilam
Ang mga sariwang sugat
Inilihim ko nang pahat
Namumutawi ang dilim
‘Di ko man makimkim
Tama na ang paghihikahos
Pagod na ang pusong sa lagusa’y naglalagos
O, kailan nga ba matatapos?
Mga luhang di tumitigil sa pagbuhos
Unti-unti, dahan-dahan
Ang mga daho’y naglalaglagan
Bumibitaw, kumakalas
Sa tubig lumalagaslas
Nahagip ng tingin, ‘di man salaminin
Parang alikabok na sumasabay sa hangin
Mga tikom na halimuyak sa aking paligid
Mga ilang-ilang na nakapinid
Wala nang natira pang bakas
Mga yapak at yabag na kay lakas
Mga luhang naparam
Mga pares ng matang nahilam
Ang mga sariwang sugat
Inilihim ko nang pahat
Namumutawi ang dilim
‘Di ko man makimkim
Tama na ang paghihikahos
Pagod na ang pusong sa lagusa’y naglalagos
O, kailan nga ba matatapos?
Mga luhang di tumitigil sa pagbuhos
Love and Hate
By Katrina Manapat
Six months flew quickly,
Here I am, longing for thee
Though hatred filled me up before
Now I’m waiting on your door
Every step is solely dedicated
Hoping I might see you lose your hatred
That if you’d see me, you’d welcome me
With wide arms and stories of glee
Then I finally saw your face
But still, there’s a tenacious space
I want to kiss and hug you
Yet something prevents me to.
You were uttering new words, yet old
Your pride’s never sold.
You’re still the guy I know
Who stands and acts on every show
Love? Yes, I still do.
Hate? Oh yes, and it grows, too.
I want to get you back in my life
But I want to push you in the lonely strife.
Six months flew quickly,
Here I am, longing for thee
Though hatred filled me up before
Now I’m waiting on your door
Every step is solely dedicated
Hoping I might see you lose your hatred
That if you’d see me, you’d welcome me
With wide arms and stories of glee
Then I finally saw your face
But still, there’s a tenacious space
I want to kiss and hug you
Yet something prevents me to.
You were uttering new words, yet old
Your pride’s never sold.
You’re still the guy I know
Who stands and acts on every show
Love? Yes, I still do.
Hate? Oh yes, and it grows, too.
I want to get you back in my life
But I want to push you in the lonely strife.
Black Suit
By Mary Jane Aguila
I don’t understand why there are some people who can’t live a day without tormenting others. Not just once did I ask myself if there’s something wrong with me. What I don’t understand is why somebody would take the time to point out every move I make and put me into a humiliating spot. Everything I do seems laughable to her.
“Do you know why I hate you? It’s because I don’t like you. I hate the way you speak, the way you dress, laugh, sit, basta. Everything! I hate your accent. You’re so maarte. You’re so baduy manamit. You’re so -- ”
These words are still etched on my mind. I can forget these words easily, but what I detest is the simple fact that I’m being machinated by someone I can’t even consider a friend.
Exactly an hour and a half had elapsed since I woke up from my afternoon nap. I don’t want to get up yet so I stayed on my bed, just lying there with eyes closed, trying to get more sleep. But then again, I remembered her. Suddenly, a pang of anger crept all over me. I felt so angry. I was trembling.
Moreover, I kept on thinking why I didn’t fire back. Why can’t I tell her that the only reason why she keeps on intimidating me is just to please her so-called friends? Why can’t I simply shout out loud that she’s being stupid trying to please them? Why can’t she just leave me alone?
What if I was the one who could humiliate her in front of the class? What if it was me who could call her names? What if it was me who could bully her and taunt her? God, forgive me for this. But sometimes I imagine giving her a swift kick between her thighs as she shouts repeatedly so she could at least feel the dose of pain she had inflicted on me. Mocking can make someone lose her confidence and self-respect, and it may be enough for one to develop an inferiority complex.
But then again, guilt poured over me. I used to tell myself that I should understand her -- perhaps she’s just having fits due to various unknown factors. But then again, I am so tired of holding myself back and keeping my anger and frustration that I can no longer control my emotions.
Am I weak? We both are, only in different aspects. But despite this devastation, I pity her.
Yes. I pity her because she can’t wear girls’ dresses. I pity her because she can’t express herself the way girls do. That’s because she can never be a girl. She can wear skinny jeans and tight-fitting blouses as much as she wants to, but she will never be treated as a girl. She’s like a ballerina trapped in her own music box.
Why can’t she see that despite everything that she had done to me these past two years, I am still trying to see her good side? I know she is a good person. It’s just that she needed someone: a real friend. Someone that is different from the crowd she has, very far from those people who love her for what she has, people who stay with her because they want something from her or are way too afraid of her bitching and backbiting. I pity her because she can’t see the reason why up to now I don’t dare humiliate her even if I could. I pity her because she can’t see that no matter how stupid she might seem, no matter how rude she is and no matter how she loves tormenting me knowing that I hate it, I still like her. I feel bad for her on certain occasions.
I know that each of us have our own dreams to fulfill, own duties to accomplish, and own principles to carry out here in this world. Our school, for instance, is a very large room for us to grow. We came here to develop our personalities, to enjoy our youth, to prepare ourselves for the real world. Unconsciously, we are creating our own plot of story. An anecdote that we could share to everyone, one that we will carry forever, and it could probably be a story which one might consider as junk, but could be valuable to another. Bear in mind that we can’t force someone to change for our sake. For whatever it’s worth, there are some people who make us stronger even when they are disguised in a black suit called torment.
I don’t understand why there are some people who can’t live a day without tormenting others. Not just once did I ask myself if there’s something wrong with me. What I don’t understand is why somebody would take the time to point out every move I make and put me into a humiliating spot. Everything I do seems laughable to her.
“Do you know why I hate you? It’s because I don’t like you. I hate the way you speak, the way you dress, laugh, sit, basta. Everything! I hate your accent. You’re so maarte. You’re so baduy manamit. You’re so -- ”
These words are still etched on my mind. I can forget these words easily, but what I detest is the simple fact that I’m being machinated by someone I can’t even consider a friend.
Exactly an hour and a half had elapsed since I woke up from my afternoon nap. I don’t want to get up yet so I stayed on my bed, just lying there with eyes closed, trying to get more sleep. But then again, I remembered her. Suddenly, a pang of anger crept all over me. I felt so angry. I was trembling.
Moreover, I kept on thinking why I didn’t fire back. Why can’t I tell her that the only reason why she keeps on intimidating me is just to please her so-called friends? Why can’t I simply shout out loud that she’s being stupid trying to please them? Why can’t she just leave me alone?
What if I was the one who could humiliate her in front of the class? What if it was me who could call her names? What if it was me who could bully her and taunt her? God, forgive me for this. But sometimes I imagine giving her a swift kick between her thighs as she shouts repeatedly so she could at least feel the dose of pain she had inflicted on me. Mocking can make someone lose her confidence and self-respect, and it may be enough for one to develop an inferiority complex.
But then again, guilt poured over me. I used to tell myself that I should understand her -- perhaps she’s just having fits due to various unknown factors. But then again, I am so tired of holding myself back and keeping my anger and frustration that I can no longer control my emotions.
Am I weak? We both are, only in different aspects. But despite this devastation, I pity her.
Yes. I pity her because she can’t wear girls’ dresses. I pity her because she can’t express herself the way girls do. That’s because she can never be a girl. She can wear skinny jeans and tight-fitting blouses as much as she wants to, but she will never be treated as a girl. She’s like a ballerina trapped in her own music box.
Why can’t she see that despite everything that she had done to me these past two years, I am still trying to see her good side? I know she is a good person. It’s just that she needed someone: a real friend. Someone that is different from the crowd she has, very far from those people who love her for what she has, people who stay with her because they want something from her or are way too afraid of her bitching and backbiting. I pity her because she can’t see the reason why up to now I don’t dare humiliate her even if I could. I pity her because she can’t see that no matter how stupid she might seem, no matter how rude she is and no matter how she loves tormenting me knowing that I hate it, I still like her. I feel bad for her on certain occasions.
I know that each of us have our own dreams to fulfill, own duties to accomplish, and own principles to carry out here in this world. Our school, for instance, is a very large room for us to grow. We came here to develop our personalities, to enjoy our youth, to prepare ourselves for the real world. Unconsciously, we are creating our own plot of story. An anecdote that we could share to everyone, one that we will carry forever, and it could probably be a story which one might consider as junk, but could be valuable to another. Bear in mind that we can’t force someone to change for our sake. For whatever it’s worth, there are some people who make us stronger even when they are disguised in a black suit called torment.
The Wanderer (A Sonnet)
By Klaris Chua
A trace of gloom upon thy withered face
I stroked it, thou soyned not to notice me
Thence, I allotted my tepid embrace
A dun ne’er felt was forsaken by thee
Trussed a bouquet of blooming roses,
Thou swiftly ran athwart the barren land
‘Til the garden of remembrance flashes
Essence of tragedy almost at hand
Beside a tombstone, thou sat down and wept
“Dear, my love, in my arms I’ll swathe you”
Alas! ‘twas this lass thy heart gently kept
But as I see those inscriptions, wind blew...
They’re for my grave, those blooms of brilliant red
Ne’er did I discern I’m already dead.
A trace of gloom upon thy withered face
I stroked it, thou soyned not to notice me
Thence, I allotted my tepid embrace
A dun ne’er felt was forsaken by thee
Trussed a bouquet of blooming roses,
Thou swiftly ran athwart the barren land
‘Til the garden of remembrance flashes
Essence of tragedy almost at hand
Beside a tombstone, thou sat down and wept
“Dear, my love, in my arms I’ll swathe you”
Alas! ‘twas this lass thy heart gently kept
But as I see those inscriptions, wind blew...
They’re for my grave, those blooms of brilliant red
Ne’er did I discern I’m already dead.
Chrysalis
By Klaris Chua
I am a daughter
of a cowardly zealot
who pretends to know
wisdom, respect,
and everything in between.
I am a sister
hiding under her shadow,
engulfed by her energy;
g’damned the way she perfects everything!
(gross.) the way she glides makes me cross.
I am a friend
one that spurts
peals of ejaculation
but when everyone’s home
I spend the rest of my days alone.
I am a lover
of a boy who barely knows me
he’ll surely step back once he finds out
the Beelzebub hidden beneath
eagerly awaiting her beautiful awakening.
And at one click, I shoved the world away
I am no longer a daughter, a sister
a friend, nor a lover --
someone needs me better.
(I saw it in the rear view mirror.)
Tonight, as I swim in the sea
of solitude and soliloquy, I cast this.
The butterfly that once touched the sky
who speak of inner brutes in a marching band declares:
“I will forever be trapped in this chrysalis again.”
I am a daughter
of a cowardly zealot
who pretends to know
wisdom, respect,
and everything in between.
I am a sister
hiding under her shadow,
engulfed by her energy;
g’damned the way she perfects everything!
(gross.) the way she glides makes me cross.
I am a friend
one that spurts
peals of ejaculation
but when everyone’s home
I spend the rest of my days alone.
I am a lover
of a boy who barely knows me
he’ll surely step back once he finds out
the Beelzebub hidden beneath
eagerly awaiting her beautiful awakening.
And at one click, I shoved the world away
I am no longer a daughter, a sister
a friend, nor a lover --
someone needs me better.
(I saw it in the rear view mirror.)
Tonight, as I swim in the sea
of solitude and soliloquy, I cast this.
The butterfly that once touched the sky
who speak of inner brutes in a marching band declares:
“I will forever be trapped in this chrysalis again.”
Never Forgotten
By Ira Zagala
Mediocrity was never an option
To be average is a sin.
Unacceptable, unforgivable
Such is the pride of one
Which drives us all
High hopes and ambition
Achieved, it seems,
With ease unprecedented,
Served only to fuel his avarice
For excellence even more
Eradicate every hindrance in sight
Obstacles too far below your eyes
To even be deemed worthy
Your disdain apparently knows no end
So high up, you’ve placed yourself
Atop your lofty, self-made pedestal
Rightfully so, as chosen by you, yourself
Far from prying and knowing looks
That could possibly see through
Your fragile façade
Forever stoke the fire
With misanthropy and mistrust
Never lose sight of the memory
Of her, the reason
The beacon which guides
Your blind vendetta
All is for her…
None can ever come close
The indelible mark of love
You so painstakingly pave the way for
Must burn all in its wake
In the path you blaze
To leave all in oblivion
For eternal remembrance
Mediocrity was never an option
To be average is a sin.
Unacceptable, unforgivable
Such is the pride of one
Which drives us all
High hopes and ambition
Achieved, it seems,
With ease unprecedented,
Served only to fuel his avarice
For excellence even more
Eradicate every hindrance in sight
Obstacles too far below your eyes
To even be deemed worthy
Your disdain apparently knows no end
So high up, you’ve placed yourself
Atop your lofty, self-made pedestal
Rightfully so, as chosen by you, yourself
Far from prying and knowing looks
That could possibly see through
Your fragile façade
Forever stoke the fire
With misanthropy and mistrust
Never lose sight of the memory
Of her, the reason
The beacon which guides
Your blind vendetta
All is for her…
None can ever come close
The indelible mark of love
You so painstakingly pave the way for
Must burn all in its wake
In the path you blaze
To leave all in oblivion
For eternal remembrance
Lolo
By Beatriz Uy
Maraming mga kabataan ang higit na malapit ang loob sa kanilang mga lolo o lola kung ikukumpara sa kanilang mga magulang. Kadalasan, sila yung mga lumaki at nagkaisip sa puder ng mga ito. Tulad na lamang ni Joyce, na sanggol pa lamang ay naging ulila na magmula nang masawi ang kanyang mga magulang sa malagim na aksidente. Ang kanyang lolo ang tumayo bilang ama’t ina niya.
Nang magdalaga si Joyce ay nakasanayan na niyang gumising ng maaga. Siya ang nagluluto ng agahan at nagwawalis ng kanilang bakuran. Pagkatapos ng mga gawaing-bahay ay tutungo siya sa bayan upang kumita ng ipambibili ng gamot ng kanyang sakiting lolo. Iba’t ibang trabaho na rin ang nasubukan niya.
Nagsusumikap si Joyce dahil mahal niya ang kanyang lolo. Hindi lingid sa kanyang kaalaman na mahina na ito at kailangan nang mamahinga. Matagal na itong kumikilos para sa kanila. Para kay Joyce, panahon na upang tumanaw ng utang na loob sa taong pinagkakautangan niya ng buhay. Nais niyang masuklian ang mga isinakripisyo nito para sa kanya -- mula sa pag-aaruga sa kanya mula pagkabata, sa pagpapaaral sa kanya hanggang hayskul, at hanggang sa paghahanap ng ikabubuhay nila upang may makain sa araw-araw.
Hayskul lamang ang natapos ni Joyce kaya naman naging mahirap para sa kanya ang makahanap ng trabaho. Sa ngayon, nagtitinda siya ng mga damit sa bayan at nag-aalaga ng bunsong anak ni Aling Betty, isang mayamang taga-bayan.
Sapat naman sana ang kinikita ni Joyce para sa pagkain nila ng kanyang lolo subalit magmula nang magkasakit ito, kinailangan na niyang dumoble ng kayod.
Tuwing umuuwi siya ay bakas ang pagod sa kanyang mukha at minsan ay hindi niya namamalayan na napag-susungitan na niya ang kanyang lolo.
“Kumusta ang trabaho mo? Nagpagod ka na naman, ‘no? Hinay-hinay lang sa pagtatrabaho, apo,” sabi ni Lolo Simeon.
“Aba’y, natural, pagod! Lo, pwede bang huwag mo muna akong kulitin, napapagod ho ako eh,” sagot ni Joyce.
Nang minsa’y napayuhan siya ng kanyang lolo ukol sa mga gastusin, napagsasalitaan niya ito ng masama: “Ako itong kumakayod, Lolo. Bakit kailangang kayo ang magsabi kung papaano ko gagastusin ang kinikita ko?”
Makailang ulit pa nilang napagdiskusyunan ang bagay na iyon. “Apo, huwag mo naman sanang masamain ang mga sinasabi ko. Iminumungkahi ko lang naman na…” ni hindi pinatapos ni Joyce sa pagsasalita ang kanyang lolo. “Pwede ho bang huwag n’yo nang sabihin kung ano’ng dapat kong gawin sa pera? Ako naman ang kumikita sa atin, ah. At bakit, sa gamot lang ba dapat mapunta ito? May mga pangangailangan din ho ako,” sambit niya.
Noong gabing iyon, masyadong dinibdib ni Lolo Simeon ang mga salitang nabitiwan ng apo. Unti-unting nagsikip ang hininga nito, dahilan upang tuluyan nang atakihin ang matanda. Dali-dali itong sinugod sa ospital ngunit hindi tinanggap dahil sa kakulangan ng pera.
Tila biglang natauhan si Joyce dahil sa nangyari. “Pera ba? Mas mahalaga ba talaga yan kaysa sa buhay ng lolo ko? Hindi ba’t tungkulin ninyong mga doktor na manggamot? Wala ba kayong puso?” maluha-luhang bulalas niya.
Natanggap man ang lolo ni Joyce sa ospital kinalaunan, hindi naman ito nabigyan ng sapat na atensyon. Hindi rin nagtagal at namatay rin ang matanda. Ngayon ay nagsisisi si Joyce sa masamang ugaling ipinakita niya sa kanyang lolo.
“Lo, patawad po. Mahal na mahal ko po kayo. Hindi man po ninyo ito narinig sa akin nang tahasan noong nabubuhay pa kayo, at bagama’t huli na ang lahat, nais ko pa rin pong sabihin ito sa inyo. Mahal ko po kayo, Lolo Simeon,” wika niya habang umiiyak sa ibabaw ng puntod ng kanyang lolo na tumayong kaibigan, magulang, at gabay niya noong nabubuhay pa ito.
Maraming mga kabataan ang higit na malapit ang loob sa kanilang mga lolo o lola kung ikukumpara sa kanilang mga magulang. Kadalasan, sila yung mga lumaki at nagkaisip sa puder ng mga ito. Tulad na lamang ni Joyce, na sanggol pa lamang ay naging ulila na magmula nang masawi ang kanyang mga magulang sa malagim na aksidente. Ang kanyang lolo ang tumayo bilang ama’t ina niya.
Nang magdalaga si Joyce ay nakasanayan na niyang gumising ng maaga. Siya ang nagluluto ng agahan at nagwawalis ng kanilang bakuran. Pagkatapos ng mga gawaing-bahay ay tutungo siya sa bayan upang kumita ng ipambibili ng gamot ng kanyang sakiting lolo. Iba’t ibang trabaho na rin ang nasubukan niya.
Nagsusumikap si Joyce dahil mahal niya ang kanyang lolo. Hindi lingid sa kanyang kaalaman na mahina na ito at kailangan nang mamahinga. Matagal na itong kumikilos para sa kanila. Para kay Joyce, panahon na upang tumanaw ng utang na loob sa taong pinagkakautangan niya ng buhay. Nais niyang masuklian ang mga isinakripisyo nito para sa kanya -- mula sa pag-aaruga sa kanya mula pagkabata, sa pagpapaaral sa kanya hanggang hayskul, at hanggang sa paghahanap ng ikabubuhay nila upang may makain sa araw-araw.
Hayskul lamang ang natapos ni Joyce kaya naman naging mahirap para sa kanya ang makahanap ng trabaho. Sa ngayon, nagtitinda siya ng mga damit sa bayan at nag-aalaga ng bunsong anak ni Aling Betty, isang mayamang taga-bayan.
Sapat naman sana ang kinikita ni Joyce para sa pagkain nila ng kanyang lolo subalit magmula nang magkasakit ito, kinailangan na niyang dumoble ng kayod.
Tuwing umuuwi siya ay bakas ang pagod sa kanyang mukha at minsan ay hindi niya namamalayan na napag-susungitan na niya ang kanyang lolo.
“Kumusta ang trabaho mo? Nagpagod ka na naman, ‘no? Hinay-hinay lang sa pagtatrabaho, apo,” sabi ni Lolo Simeon.
“Aba’y, natural, pagod! Lo, pwede bang huwag mo muna akong kulitin, napapagod ho ako eh,” sagot ni Joyce.
Nang minsa’y napayuhan siya ng kanyang lolo ukol sa mga gastusin, napagsasalitaan niya ito ng masama: “Ako itong kumakayod, Lolo. Bakit kailangang kayo ang magsabi kung papaano ko gagastusin ang kinikita ko?”
Makailang ulit pa nilang napagdiskusyunan ang bagay na iyon. “Apo, huwag mo naman sanang masamain ang mga sinasabi ko. Iminumungkahi ko lang naman na…” ni hindi pinatapos ni Joyce sa pagsasalita ang kanyang lolo. “Pwede ho bang huwag n’yo nang sabihin kung ano’ng dapat kong gawin sa pera? Ako naman ang kumikita sa atin, ah. At bakit, sa gamot lang ba dapat mapunta ito? May mga pangangailangan din ho ako,” sambit niya.
Noong gabing iyon, masyadong dinibdib ni Lolo Simeon ang mga salitang nabitiwan ng apo. Unti-unting nagsikip ang hininga nito, dahilan upang tuluyan nang atakihin ang matanda. Dali-dali itong sinugod sa ospital ngunit hindi tinanggap dahil sa kakulangan ng pera.
Tila biglang natauhan si Joyce dahil sa nangyari. “Pera ba? Mas mahalaga ba talaga yan kaysa sa buhay ng lolo ko? Hindi ba’t tungkulin ninyong mga doktor na manggamot? Wala ba kayong puso?” maluha-luhang bulalas niya.
Natanggap man ang lolo ni Joyce sa ospital kinalaunan, hindi naman ito nabigyan ng sapat na atensyon. Hindi rin nagtagal at namatay rin ang matanda. Ngayon ay nagsisisi si Joyce sa masamang ugaling ipinakita niya sa kanyang lolo.
“Lo, patawad po. Mahal na mahal ko po kayo. Hindi man po ninyo ito narinig sa akin nang tahasan noong nabubuhay pa kayo, at bagama’t huli na ang lahat, nais ko pa rin pong sabihin ito sa inyo. Mahal ko po kayo, Lolo Simeon,” wika niya habang umiiyak sa ibabaw ng puntod ng kanyang lolo na tumayong kaibigan, magulang, at gabay niya noong nabubuhay pa ito.
Shed Your Gradient
By Eric Francis Dimapilis
I am dimmed.
Reduced to a darker grey;
Lighter than that of a shadow.
Creeping onto wooded floors
Of your long-forgotten past.
The uninhibited past you detest
And shamefully buried
Beneath lies of a striking green,
Deep burning scarlet,
And playful canary yellow
Stroked, and smudged to finish --
A careful spotless blending
Of lavish hypocrisy.
The silly men that flock to your side
Fooled by the colors you proudly wear.
When in truth and in happenstance,
And in fleeting time, herself at daybreak,
You realize you are colorless, empty.
But you dread change, and uncertainty,
Afraid to lose everything; afraid to go back
To being simple -- a thing that you left in shivers;
And eventually dry, and dull,
And desperate and lonely
It is I, a part of you who believes still
In clear blue skies, in fields of green,
In how simple things were, and how beautiful;
Without your bright pretenses
To darken the majestic scene
The uninhibited past you once had,
The subtle hues you cast,
You were then easier on the eyes.
Oh, will you shed your gradient for me?
Return to your once silken texture
Drown, the stark contrast,
Wipe the excess, layer by layer.
Remind yourself and welcome
These memories of sepia
A slowly fading nostalgic hand,
Knocking onto wooded doors
Of your long forgotten past
I am dimmed.
Reduced to a darker grey;
Lighter than that of a shadow.
Creeping onto wooded floors
Of your long-forgotten past.
The uninhibited past you detest
And shamefully buried
Beneath lies of a striking green,
Deep burning scarlet,
And playful canary yellow
Stroked, and smudged to finish --
A careful spotless blending
Of lavish hypocrisy.
The silly men that flock to your side
Fooled by the colors you proudly wear.
When in truth and in happenstance,
And in fleeting time, herself at daybreak,
You realize you are colorless, empty.
But you dread change, and uncertainty,
Afraid to lose everything; afraid to go back
To being simple -- a thing that you left in shivers;
And eventually dry, and dull,
And desperate and lonely
It is I, a part of you who believes still
In clear blue skies, in fields of green,
In how simple things were, and how beautiful;
Without your bright pretenses
To darken the majestic scene
The uninhibited past you once had,
The subtle hues you cast,
You were then easier on the eyes.
Oh, will you shed your gradient for me?
Return to your once silken texture
Drown, the stark contrast,
Wipe the excess, layer by layer.
Remind yourself and welcome
These memories of sepia
A slowly fading nostalgic hand,
Knocking onto wooded doors
Of your long forgotten past
Deeply Wounded
By Gladys de Leon
Trapped in vacuity
Feeling empty and futile
Without a thought to think
An indolent heart that doesn’t beat
Promises led me to wreckage,
Vengeful conceptions ardently prevail
Blood imbrued the innocent hands
Unwanted emotions mold the furious mind
Ungraciously forsaken by the world,
Causing me to believe the untrue
Had me nullified by deplorable mistakes
Benumbed by repetitious dismay
Confined with so much sadness,
Illusions are patently evident,
Diminishing light menaced my paradise,
Drifting me away as oblivions rise
Trapped in vacuity
Feeling empty and futile
Without a thought to think
An indolent heart that doesn’t beat
Promises led me to wreckage,
Vengeful conceptions ardently prevail
Blood imbrued the innocent hands
Unwanted emotions mold the furious mind
Ungraciously forsaken by the world,
Causing me to believe the untrue
Had me nullified by deplorable mistakes
Benumbed by repetitious dismay
Confined with so much sadness,
Illusions are patently evident,
Diminishing light menaced my paradise,
Drifting me away as oblivions rise
Struggling for Air
By Bernard John Abraham
I’ve taken on a new addiction.
I gasp for breath,
hanging in limbo, wanting to die.
The clouds surround me
I’m scared, gripped by fear.
Guess I’m afraid to face my own demons after all.
What they thought was a fortress is a castle of sand
Crumbling down as the waves of anguish,
Crashing down against my shores.
I feel the pressure crushing my being.
I hope it would, and fast!
For maybe somewhere down there, peace awaits.
Maybe the writhing would cease, the torment gone.
Where I would be stoic but serene.
Maybe that darkness would be my heaven,
A still silence engulfing my soul,
Where I gasp for breath no more.
I’ve taken on a new addiction.
I gasp for breath,
hanging in limbo, wanting to die.
The clouds surround me
I’m scared, gripped by fear.
Guess I’m afraid to face my own demons after all.
What they thought was a fortress is a castle of sand
Crumbling down as the waves of anguish,
Crashing down against my shores.
I feel the pressure crushing my being.
I hope it would, and fast!
For maybe somewhere down there, peace awaits.
Maybe the writhing would cease, the torment gone.
Where I would be stoic but serene.
Maybe that darkness would be my heaven,
A still silence engulfing my soul,
Where I gasp for breath no more.
Pinned on Nowhere
By Amalia Airiz Casta
Caged in my ribs, it pulsates out undeserving life to my futile flesh.
It injects the throbbing of the demise it denies.
It is the very thing that pinned me on the board.
I’m unable to go forward; I’m unable to go back.
They called it the heart.
Beneath the solitary starlight, alone I hover;
Betwixt insomnia and sleep, half-dead and half-alive
Clobbered by shadows of ambiguity, I gasp for air.
I flash a lost stare across the realms of my melancholic nostalgia,
But you were never there.
I’m a marionette of my grudge and love for you.
You pulled and cut the strings, but you caused them to mend and move again.
You put me to life; yet you prepared my grave.
You renew and medicate my aches. I thought you could hear me,
But you were never there.
I close my eyes, but I never slept and dreamed.
I simply glance back at the memories…
Tumbling over one another,
Mixing, colliding. Merciless. Suffocating.
And you were never there.
Ring-around-a-carousel, am I just your murder doll?
Hate nourishes my affection for you,
My oblivion longs for my memory of you.
My broken, shattered, pulverized heart sings for you.
Yet you were never there.
But though you were never there,
My bruised wings will still struggle for you.
I abhor and care, I remember and forget.
Emotions really are razor-edged for my brittle soul,
But I’ll abandon suicide and my grave for you.
Caged in my ribs, it pulsates out undeserving life to my futile flesh.
It injects the throbbing of the demise it denies.
It is the very thing that pinned me on the board.
I’m unable to go forward; I’m unable to go back.
They called it the heart.
Beneath the solitary starlight, alone I hover;
Betwixt insomnia and sleep, half-dead and half-alive
Clobbered by shadows of ambiguity, I gasp for air.
I flash a lost stare across the realms of my melancholic nostalgia,
But you were never there.
I’m a marionette of my grudge and love for you.
You pulled and cut the strings, but you caused them to mend and move again.
You put me to life; yet you prepared my grave.
You renew and medicate my aches. I thought you could hear me,
But you were never there.
I close my eyes, but I never slept and dreamed.
I simply glance back at the memories…
Tumbling over one another,
Mixing, colliding. Merciless. Suffocating.
And you were never there.
Ring-around-a-carousel, am I just your murder doll?
Hate nourishes my affection for you,
My oblivion longs for my memory of you.
My broken, shattered, pulverized heart sings for you.
Yet you were never there.
But though you were never there,
My bruised wings will still struggle for you.
I abhor and care, I remember and forget.
Emotions really are razor-edged for my brittle soul,
But I’ll abandon suicide and my grave for you.
Autopsy
By Juan Paolo dela Cruz
When the day is at its expiration
I am left here: stagnant, cloistered, and confused
Alone, eaten by my admiration
Burning the laughter and smiles that were abused
Again, felicity had hidden itself from me
Forsaking the boy that lived by its existence
A hunger, a gasp, for happiness till eternity
To pay for the lifeless clown that lost its smile...
When the day is at its expiration
I am left here: stagnant, cloistered, and confused
Alone, eaten by my admiration
Burning the laughter and smiles that were abused
Again, felicity had hidden itself from me
Forsaking the boy that lived by its existence
A hunger, a gasp, for happiness till eternity
To pay for the lifeless clown that lost its smile...
An Apology Unsaid
By Jiea Dee
The darkest moment of my life was hollow. It was so hollow that I never knew what I was feeling nor what I was supposed to be feeling. It was when my dear grandfather passed away.
My grandfather. We affectionately called him “Papa Tony.” He was such a fun-loving and generous person. Every Christmas used to be a blast. My cousins and I all had mountains of presents as well as extra money to spend for the holidays. Everything seemed jolly until his death.
Only in my teenage years did I begin to tilt on the negatives. Back then, he would habitually give me unwanted sermons on what to do with my life, what course to take up in college, who to choose as a boyfriend, to think only of earning money, get out of the country, and all the tedious when-I-was-your-age monologues given by wheezy old men to their grandkids.
I couldn’t take the blabbing anymore. It gave birth to annoyance. The annoyance soon evolved to spite. Spite, in return, spawned to hatred. I began talking behind his back, calling him a grouch, a Hitler-wannabe, and the worst: a greedy, malcontent, power-hungry plutomaniac. There was even a time I had the balls to yell straight at his face.
We never saw each other again. Only during the Christmas holidays did my Mom call me up, tearfully informing me that our Papa Tony has liver cancer. He might not last long. We all gathered around his hospital bed. Mom couldn’t bear to see him helpless in bed. I left the room just to stay away from the melancholy.
Only two days after Christmas did we hear the grave news. Papa Tony has finally passed away. I felt numb. Guilt and conscience suddenly flooded me like a breaking dam. I suddenly remembered all the kind things he did for us. I felt so empty yet I wondered where my streaming tears were coming from.
I often ask. Why is it that people are loved only when they’re gone? Why is it that we tend to take them for granted and only reminisce on the goodness of their existence in the end? Why do we know the answers only when it’s far too late?
Months passed. We habitually visited his grave in Manila Memorial Park. Even though I would look straight at his epitaph, I still can’t look straight at his face. I never got to apologize for everything I said about him when he was still alive. And I’d rather not now that he’s dead. I believe it’s a form of cowardice to apologize indirectly.
Even if my cousin Raph encouraged me to apologize to his grave, I still couldn’t do so. I’d just sit in a corner and let regret torture my soul.
Raph put his arm around me. “Papa Tony has already forgiven you long before you even thought of apologizing. Even if you still haven’t said the words, he has already looked for those words in your heart. And he perfectly understands you’re sorry. There’s nothing to be guilty about, alright?”
Yes. All is well. At least Papa Tony is already in a world where he can fly around and feel no pain. We shall all see him soon.
The darkest moment of my life was hollow. It was so hollow that I never knew what I was feeling nor what I was supposed to be feeling. It was when my dear grandfather passed away.
My grandfather. We affectionately called him “Papa Tony.” He was such a fun-loving and generous person. Every Christmas used to be a blast. My cousins and I all had mountains of presents as well as extra money to spend for the holidays. Everything seemed jolly until his death.
Only in my teenage years did I begin to tilt on the negatives. Back then, he would habitually give me unwanted sermons on what to do with my life, what course to take up in college, who to choose as a boyfriend, to think only of earning money, get out of the country, and all the tedious when-I-was-your-age monologues given by wheezy old men to their grandkids.
I couldn’t take the blabbing anymore. It gave birth to annoyance. The annoyance soon evolved to spite. Spite, in return, spawned to hatred. I began talking behind his back, calling him a grouch, a Hitler-wannabe, and the worst: a greedy, malcontent, power-hungry plutomaniac. There was even a time I had the balls to yell straight at his face.
We never saw each other again. Only during the Christmas holidays did my Mom call me up, tearfully informing me that our Papa Tony has liver cancer. He might not last long. We all gathered around his hospital bed. Mom couldn’t bear to see him helpless in bed. I left the room just to stay away from the melancholy.
Only two days after Christmas did we hear the grave news. Papa Tony has finally passed away. I felt numb. Guilt and conscience suddenly flooded me like a breaking dam. I suddenly remembered all the kind things he did for us. I felt so empty yet I wondered where my streaming tears were coming from.
I often ask. Why is it that people are loved only when they’re gone? Why is it that we tend to take them for granted and only reminisce on the goodness of their existence in the end? Why do we know the answers only when it’s far too late?
Months passed. We habitually visited his grave in Manila Memorial Park. Even though I would look straight at his epitaph, I still can’t look straight at his face. I never got to apologize for everything I said about him when he was still alive. And I’d rather not now that he’s dead. I believe it’s a form of cowardice to apologize indirectly.
Even if my cousin Raph encouraged me to apologize to his grave, I still couldn’t do so. I’d just sit in a corner and let regret torture my soul.
Raph put his arm around me. “Papa Tony has already forgiven you long before you even thought of apologizing. Even if you still haven’t said the words, he has already looked for those words in your heart. And he perfectly understands you’re sorry. There’s nothing to be guilty about, alright?”
Yes. All is well. At least Papa Tony is already in a world where he can fly around and feel no pain. We shall all see him soon.
Pagkatakot ni Doding Daga
By Pepito Dizon
Natatakot akong lumabas
Baka nariyan siya at kumakaripas
Natatakot akong maglaro
Baka nakamasid mga mata niyang tuso
Tumatayo ang aking balahibo
Baka matulad ako sa iba kong kahalubilo
Ayaw kong gumalaw sa aking kinalalagyan
Baka may mangyaring di ko inaasam
Subalit ano pa ang saysay ng pagkatakot
Ngayong ako ay nasa kanya nang pangil
Ilang saglit na lang ay mawawalan na’ko ng hininga
Tuluyang lalamunin at dudurugin ng kanyang bituka
Mamamatay na nga lang ako,
Natatakot pa ako
Ngunit wala namang saysay ito
Pagka’t mamaya, idudumi niya na ako.
Malayo na ako sa pagiging daga
Isa na lamang akong dumi sa lupa
Na nginuya at pinahirapan ng gutom na pusa.
Subalit kahit ako ay isang dumi sa lupa…
Natatakot pa rin akong maapakan ng paa.
Natatakot akong lumabas
Baka nariyan siya at kumakaripas
Natatakot akong maglaro
Baka nakamasid mga mata niyang tuso
Tumatayo ang aking balahibo
Baka matulad ako sa iba kong kahalubilo
Ayaw kong gumalaw sa aking kinalalagyan
Baka may mangyaring di ko inaasam
Subalit ano pa ang saysay ng pagkatakot
Ngayong ako ay nasa kanya nang pangil
Ilang saglit na lang ay mawawalan na’ko ng hininga
Tuluyang lalamunin at dudurugin ng kanyang bituka
Mamamatay na nga lang ako,
Natatakot pa ako
Ngunit wala namang saysay ito
Pagka’t mamaya, idudumi niya na ako.
Malayo na ako sa pagiging daga
Isa na lamang akong dumi sa lupa
Na nginuya at pinahirapan ng gutom na pusa.
Subalit kahit ako ay isang dumi sa lupa…
Natatakot pa rin akong maapakan ng paa.
Twilight Massacre
By Katrina Tapang
Furious breathing
Echoing to the opaque corners
Of a strange cylindrical dream.
Moonlight’s arms peep between
The cracks -- tangerine shadows
Dancing with the soft breeze
Singing with the crickets of the night
A sketch of a fatal scythe
Sways, aiming at the porcelain neck
Crafted for wicker rope
Frightening moans vociferate
Highlighting the doom that embraces her slowly.
She is a fallen angel
Murdered by a sordid nightmare.
When dusk paints the horizon,
She’ll be a painted history of annihilation.
Furious breathing
Echoing to the opaque corners
Of a strange cylindrical dream.
Moonlight’s arms peep between
The cracks -- tangerine shadows
Dancing with the soft breeze
Singing with the crickets of the night
A sketch of a fatal scythe
Sways, aiming at the porcelain neck
Crafted for wicker rope
Frightening moans vociferate
Highlighting the doom that embraces her slowly.
She is a fallen angel
Murdered by a sordid nightmare.
When dusk paints the horizon,
She’ll be a painted history of annihilation.
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