Sunday Obligation

Sunday Obligation

I go to mass to meet God.
Right at the very same hour that I vowed
I showed up and He kept talking.

I go to mass to meet God.
When I’m quite sure that my mind
was somewhere else I can hardly point.

I go to mass to meet God.
And someone else was on my head.
But I still showed up and He kept talking.

I went to mass to meet God.
And He talked of true love and “someday”
I tried to listen while He kept talking.

I went to mass to meet God.
But I felt that I was absent today, of all days
That I need my God the most like every single day.

I went to mass to meet God.
Even when I was thinking of him who was.
Christ, forgive me, for I know that You will always be.

(Christ forgive me, for desiring what’s less better for me).

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The Unhappy Matchstick Girl

The Unhappy Matchstick Girl

wake up in the morning
too early for a little girl to be up
but she’s off to learning
in school like everyone else
the moon’s still waning
and the morning breeze too cool
so our little girls is off

up and ready; preparing for school
she’s too young to withstand
the cold of the morning and so
she gets a kettle to heat
her bathing water; right on
the stove placed nice and still
our little girl might be a bit ill

she lights a match right there
and it wouldn’t work; again she lit,
again it did not do the trick
poor little girl; how will she?
if the matchstick won’t light
‘maybe’ she thought; ‘some things
are not meant for little girls to get right’

(or some girls are not meant
for little things to get right)

Jeepneys, elevators and the brighter side of the valley

Jeepneys, elevators and the brighter side of the valley

I would drop off the jeepney and I board on another. The sky’s quite dark. And the streetlights be gleaming like yellow stars in the night. It feels like Christmas with the chill in the breeze only the lights seem grayscale; so simple yet so magnificent. But deep within something is missing and being tired makes you forget or unscrew the pieces that keeps you together.

A long way from home.

I sat down near the edge of the jeepney. I looked around and the front seats were full counting the driver. A few distance to my right was a lady; there was a cute guy to my left. Across me, a couple of sheer sweetness. I couldn’t help but sense the gentleness of the man right there in front of me. The way he took care of the lady whose heart he shares with is just… mesmerizing. It made me look back and little by little crack my heart open only to bleed with regret and yearning.

Regret for not seizing every moment that I used to have. Yearning for that same moment when everything was nothing but pure truth and that it would last for all eternity.

I struggled to take the time traversing home to false asleep. Serenity. Temporary bliss. For moment there, I felt like I wanted to abandon everything and trap myself in time feeling that bliss of having to rest after a day’s stress and confusion over juggling every single thing that has caught me weak in action. I have never appreciated solace and silence.

But there I was getting nearer and nearer to a place right where I should be: Home.

And what else can I do but dig up the things that I could look forward to. I did. I think I managed to pull that off quite well.

Until I got home… I could say that ‘I thank God for letting me see things this way.’ I could still thank God for allowing me to see the brighter side of things I believe that destroyed me long ago. I have been trapped in the valley of misery for too long and I am grateful for elevators and that help me see what the light touches even when it hardly reaches me now.

To the hearts who never forget

To the hearts who never forget

To the hearts who never forget
of goodness and of happy thoughts;

Of love and all the misery these
eyes have seen. To the horizons

I have not yet fathomed.
To the hearts who never forget

To the years I have yet to race
To the sleepless dawns I would

still have to face in heart of the
furnace of raging flames and ice.

To the hearts who never forget
me and my legends I have yet to tell.

Looking out from the back of the car

Looking out from the back of the car

The lampposts beam like meteor showers and falling stars raging in the night. The sky don’t seem as dark as black should be but it was a deep ocean blue; so deep perhaps even I would dare to swim and submerge myself into it only to find Titanic and drag it back to the shore.

Mind you, this is just me again looking out at the back of the car; watching the road pass opposite my direction like the world keeps saying goodbye as I circle it. I hear my mother and father conversing facing the windshield. My brother and his wife have their own with my little niece keeping up. They’d occasionally share a little laugh and I see right before eyes… sensing their genuine happiness… Such I glee that I could not afford to have under some circumstance.

And I do not deserve that. I think.

I could not help but wonder. If all I can afford to have now is pure and utter melancholy, for sure, I’d one day turn things around. After all, it always takes time for a heroine to get through the plotline of her story. And I’m still getting through with mine. Perhaps I may never know where I am exactly; be it the middle or I’ve just begun, maybe at the brink of the unleashing of things finally coming around for me. That I believe we are still to see.

And when things start to come around, what is it going to be for me? Am I damsel in distress of some sort? Am I leading anybody on a strike or a movement or a league? Am I going to be some guy’s heroine rather than that guy being my hero? What? — I just couldn’t even put my finger on it. I’m not even going to say it.

I see my little nieces and nephews growing and being born one by one and I realize, one day I’ll have one of those. One I’m going to sit beside the driver’s seat. Maybe hold the driver’s hand or his lap. And then I’ll find myself looking at the back of the car with little kids playing or sharing a story to me… probably even asleep after a long day out of the house. I look at my little nieces’ and nephews’ eyes and smiles, and I see myself raising someone like them… just like them… one of my own.

Tonight I look out and wonder… will I be happy? I guess I will be– Of course, I will be. But I just wonder, is that really one I would call ‘a life that is for me?’

Scars and tears over scars and Daddy issues

Scars and tears over scars and Daddy issues

I embraced technology as it opened its arms to me. Perhaps it showed me something I could not even explain myself but I believe that it has become a part of me. I don’t even know how to begin or continue a life without it because it has become a scar on my face that won’t ever dare fade. I can’t say I’m proud of it. I can’t say I’m not. But it’s truth. Bar nun.

Father wants me to wash that very scar off my face. Possibly forcing me to make it go away. But I can’t. And he ends up scarring me, wounding me even more with words in tones and manners that could probably make one take a life. If not it could scare all the happy thoughts that is left in anybody’s mind.

And I fought back.

But it was wrong to fight back. But it’s also wrong to be wounded that way. I find no sense in there. I find no sense in this war.

And now, I weep for my scars that my old man left me. Because I fought back. Because I was stupid. I weep for my old man because I had to see his occasional habit of being a jerk to me. I cannot promise that I won’t ever see that again. I know I will weep for the same reasons in the future.

My father is no bastard. In fact, he’s an outstanding father. He’s a profound speaker in his own way. One of which is a way of being a total bastard but mostly of love and care. He has seen enough pain and misery to act like he does… It sucks how I am tasked to put up with that because I end up not choosing to shut my mouth when he pulls the trigger. I fail to keep myself quiet whenever he stabs me with shards of glasses that are actually from the remnants of busted walls that came from me, I never tell him but it hurts even more.

Then again he does not know of the busted walls. I never speak of it. Otherwise I might end up weeping for reasons that has long been gone and over. I might cry for the heartbreaks that already passed its time. I just might end up wallowing over dark shadows and made-up-prince-charmings that has conquered me time and time again.

I am so done.

That liberating feeling

That liberating feeling

You know that feeling that every time you find yourself trying too hard to breathe you know you just can’t. You know it your nose is clogged. Every single time you take that chance to make it right, you wonder… what on earth clogged your breathing track that makes you struggle too hard to feel better, breathe better?

How am I supposed to know? I mean I would never know. All I know that I am sick. I have sniffles. I have mild colds. Perhaps it’s just the crappy feeling that gets into me so bad it devours me whole. I want to burst into song and belt out the high notes like I would always always do but I fail.

Maybe I just ended up realizing that it was too hard for me to do.

And now, you can just imagine how amazing I feel now that every little hindrances that used lie somewhere my breathing track have fled from here to nowhere. Now I can finally sing again and makes myself fly. Now I can breathe again—**cough **cough

Maybe not entirely. But I’m getting there. I feel so awesome. I’m so free.