Extinguish This Please (Poem)

I can’t stand how much I have to please this feeling,
When I’m all about control,
Because the curls in your hair can run rings around my fingers,
And I don’t know how not to fall in love,
When you’re taken, you’re taken for life.

I’m going to write love poem after love poem,
If it can expel the lust in me,
And I’m surprised this happened at all,
Because I never cared about you,
Until I saw you sipping coffee and looking away from me.

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Birthdays (Poem)

*Note: This was inspired by a poetry prompt from The Daily Poet by Kelli Russell Agodon and Martha Silano

You were around seven years old when you had a birthday cake with mini balloons. The small balls were propped up on hard plastic straws, looking like psychedelic trees planted on a land of chocolate. You squirmed as your mother asked the photographer to take one more picture of you and all of your smiling guests. When your furrowed brow, your pouted mouth, your hunched position was finally frozen in time, your mother let you go. You dashed to the cake, uprooted one bunch of mini balloons, and put them in your mouth. Blech! They weren’t lollipops; they were plastic. You had cried and desired for nothing.

It was a month before your tenth birthday, and you knew that for the first time you wouldn’t have a party. You were sore about it because you thought your mom didn’t have money for it. Fast forward to when you were 22: you visited your cousin’s grave, saw the dates on his tombstone, and you realized that he died one month before your tenth birthday. Car. Turned turtle. Him through the windshield. He was 19 years old. Kuya Paulo, blood! Ten-year-old you tried to cry when your mother told you the news, but until today you blame yourself for not crying hard enough.

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She Feels Like a Memory

She feels like a memory,

Like that old classmate,

Who’s in all your photographs,

Your arm around her shoulder,

Yet you don’t remember,

Why you laughed so hard.

 

She feels like a memory,

Like that pet who ran away,

Leaves an unoccupied doghouse,

A structure you dare not tear down.

 

She feels like a memory,

She was the twin who smiled,

The sister is before you,

Which one is the disguise?

 

She feels like a memory,

Like that token gift,

That wooden flower and pot thing,

Bobbing its petal head on a spring,

How can something so simple,

Ever be still,

In one’s mind?

 

She feels like a memory,

Blurred, gone, and fading,

But here I am,

Sure of the memory,

Sure of the goodbye.

 

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Note: For some entries in this blog, a few names and details have been deliberately and willingly changed by the author. This is a personal decision made by the author for specific reasons known to her and is not an endorsement for censorship.

All the opinions expressed in this page and in this blog are my own and do not represent the official stances of the companies, institutions, and organizations that I am affiliated with. I am a person. I’m not just a manifestation of corporate interests. I have an identity that is separate from my company because even if human beings are paid for a service by corporations, human beings are not owned by corporations.

Celebrating the first poem I have ever published

Although I studied Creative Writing in college, I never got to practice it after I graduated. I semi-purposefully stopped writing fiction because I began questioning why I was doing it (but now I’m Writing Fiction Again). I stopped writing poetry because I got so intimidated by how beautiful it was. Recently though, I started writing poetry again, and I’m doing it in the way that I can, even though it’s against what I studied in class. I wasn’t expecting anything when I sent my poem to Ani last October, so now it’s such a pleasant surprise that it got accepted.

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Bakit walang mga putang ama?

Bakit walang mga putang ama? Meron putang ina pero walang putang ama. At kung paniniwalaan natin ang mga No Other Woman sa pelikula’t telebisyon at hello, si Erap lang, please lang, at ang statistics na mas marami daw lalaking nangangaliwa kaysa sa babaeng nangangaliwa, e di sa totoo lang, mas maraming mga putang ama kaysa sa putang ina. So bakit walang mga salitang putang ama?

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Sometimes Love Feels Like a Dark Alley

Sometimes love feels like a dark alley–

We have to live defensively or else we’ll be abused,

And it’s never the abuser’s fault for taking advantage of our vulnerabilities,

But it’s our fault for being “stupid enough” to assume that the people we meet aren’t monsters.

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