I was going thru the files in my pc last night (a usual tactic to delay my writing projects) and I saw these poems I wrote back in college. Most of them well, what can I say, uhm autobiographical. Some were from the glut of my imagination. I decided to post two of them here and risk damnation.
sometimes, I just wanna slow it down a bit and feel the vacuity
of things, the small, irreparable things free mortals take for granted.
i miss that when I have all the rubbish I need for the day.
i miss screwing around coz Iíve got no money and the baby needs milk
while his dad needs some cooing and pampering like an old self-indulgent kid.
many times, I think of what would have happened if the balloon didnít pop
or if I just borrowed the extra cash my friend loaned me to buy a good one.
or if I made the right choice of keeping the baggage, the hard extra
baggage that goes with you throughout lifetime without even a snooze.
iíd think of that while the bastardís waiting for his second round of tune-up.
most of the time, I get tired of living in this manhole I call home
i miss the life of a pariah I once had and think of what a perfect one
i could have chosen, living in a shelter with no one but my old self
thinking of nothing but food for my stomach and a pillow on my head
but it isnít fine to mope while the little ones cry their heads off, screaming at me.
i donít have that time, anymore Iíve got diapers to wash, plates to clean up
carrots to feed, blankets to starch and groceries to buy.
then Iíve got 10 minutes to prepare myself and think of how I look
while my husband scolds me that I donít look pretty enough for him,
not even for the grocery guy downtown who enjoys his job gawking at ladiesí legs.
i await the time, after sex at night, when the king gets tired and dozes off
then I can go to my own place where everyone thinks Iím still comely
for a woman whoís been ravaged by the same old people every single day.
I stay there till the rodents scratch my back for their next dayís coddle
and I again do my toil, with a voice squealing in my head to get out of this hell.
06/05/01 Balibago, Angeles City
Looks of desire
each otherís skin
Drunken with words
We grieve knowing no
reason enough but these.
Body caressing high
with innocent passions
Knowing no other future
Can hold us together.
Minds awhile introxicated
push each away from each
Fearing reckonings and
answers for the great unasked
Knowing with certainty
Nothing of us even mattered.
Balibago, Angeles City