face my two-faced living (haiku)

1. Shall I hear my Woe
Into the pit of these deeds?
Live to thy burden.

2. Put thyself in verse
And fly to the weightless place
Exalt thy pained self.

3. Forgive me unhealed
I praise t'is permanent taste
Endured agony.

4. Leave my eyes unread
Quench my anguish on ablaze
And pour not my blood.

5. "It is what it is,"
Said the men in search for bliss;
Make me feel my ease.

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Conveyor Belt

For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris. Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor, as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.

Nasanay na sa pag-iisa ang minsang mga kamay na nangungulila sa isang araw kong pagkawala ng kinakapitang bisig at balikat na sinasandalan at marahil naging bunga ito ng pagtatantong ang pagmamahal ay tila nakasusuya nang putahe pero natatangi pa rin kung kaya't nasa lamesa na ang hinog na saging para sa kalamnan at ang paborito mong tsokolateng tinapay hinihiling na sana ang mga ito ang pumawi ng suyà habang ang mga pirasong nangalaglag pa rin mula sa maráhan mong pagnguya ay 'di lingíd ng mga matang sa iyo nakatingin na sa kabila ng mga hibla ng buhok nahuhulog sa aking balikat na bunga ng kalamlamán at paghahanap ng rason habang pilit na tinutulak sa sariling sasambulat ang bukas na ako ay tataya pa rin sa ‘di siguradong sa kabila ng bingit ng pagkawala at paralisadong estado, maging higit ang pagnanais na manatili.

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet, I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!" I still know how to stay still when everybody sings me one. My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel. Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything is still made of infinite loops, as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.

Papier-mâché

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