In this coccoon,
Caught in a shadow,
Nobody knows me at all,
When I am passing by,
Yeah, people say hi,
But come to think about it,
Nobody knows me at all.
Family,friends, teachers, schoolmates,
People I have met through fate,
They don’t know me at all.
But,
Happy that I am,
Not giving a fucking damn that…
Nobody knows me at all,
Nobody knows how I truly feel,
Though shared, everything is concealed,
Nobody knows me at all.
Nobody Knows Me At All
Lit 191:Fantasy Fiction
If there was one class I enjoyed this semester…
It would be Lit 191:Fantasy Fiction under the legendary children’s book author Ms. Cyan Abad-Jugo,daughter of the award-winning Filipino poet Gemino Abad.
The class was hard and it made me think outside my Freudian and Jungian and Pyschology box (I’m a psych major,not a lit major) and it was tiring and frustrating at first,but deeply rewarding. Cheers to the semester of the study of fantasy and how it can be a tool to mirror reality!I learnt a lot!
Time
I did a crime and was brought to court, an outlaw, unworthy of applause,
So he gave me punishments as heavy as the cause,
For him to move forward and progress,
For him to step backward and regress.
And with this sentence I feel like a master,
But the strength to choose I could not muster.
He is a tease and a taunt.
His body is pleased and is also gaunt.
He is the accuser and the accused, the judge and the lawyer,
The jailer and the freer,
All rolled into one.
His hands move, little by little, in increments.
Tick,tick,tick.
Freedom and punishments.
Possibilities and finities.
And with this, the lines have been crossed, and the race tracks have been built,
Him and I,him and I,
Are the two sources of the crime’s guilt.
photo from: ci.berkeley.ca.us
Away from Home
Despite your irritating jeepney conductors, and their self-centered ways to extort money from innocent passengers,
Despite your roads encrusted with dust and your highway which consists of dimly lit neon signs and silent households,
Despite you containing my own house, its walls of gray, and tiles of, well, no tiles,
Despite living in a high-rise in Cubao,with a view of the enormous city, its lights far brighter than yours,
I miss you Antipolo, you with lush, green nature, and karaoke-drones neighbors,
I miss you Antipolo, your church of pilgrimage,your suman and cashew, and shing-a-lings,
My bedroom without airconditioning, which contains my fan that doesn’t work, my bed half-filled with books unread,
Which are now packed away in neat,empty boxes.
I miss you Antipolo and your promise of late nights,your swerving jeepneys,
The TV I almost destroyed, the dysfunctional shower, the no-flush clogged toilet.
I miss you Antipolo, and no amount of condo floor levels would equate to your comfort.
Our front gate ravaged by Ondoy.
Another one of my on-a-whim poems
This is what happens when you mix loneliness with a can of nescafe mocha.
Home Alone
Home alone,
Aircon humming in a static drone,
Inside my purple bag I took,
My heavy book,
Opened its pages,
Hesitantly, with movements like day-old stages,
Read for a couple of minutes,
Till concept and reality fit,
But then my vision wavered like a lamp dimly lit,
So I sought the comfort of my speakers,
Untied the shoelaces of my sneakers,
Barefoot, walked to turn the volume up,
Closed the door and turned the lock.
Danced to the music like a dork,
With more zealousness then, went back to work,
Productivity loss,I had to atone,
What a fun night at home,
Alone.
