Poetic Mode

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.

Tied-up young

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 I?ve 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 didn?t 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.
i?d think of that while the bastard?s 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 isn?t fine to mope while the little ones cry their heads off, screaming at me.

i don?t have that time, anymore I?ve got diapers to wash, plates to clean up
carrots to feed, blankets to starch and groceries to buy.
then I?ve got 10 minutes to prepare myself and think of how I look
while my husband scolds me that I don?t look pretty enough for him,
not even for the grocery guy downtown who enjoys his job gawking at ladies? 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 I?m still comely
for a woman who?s been ravaged by the same old people every single day.
I stay there till the rodents scratch my back for their next day?s 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

One-Afternoon Stand

Fidgeting, awkward
Looks of desire
We exchange
Kisses, brushing
each other?s skin
Drunken with words
We grieve knowing no
reason enough but these.

Dreaming, love?s
Unconscious happenings
We engage
Tongue exchanging
Body caressing high
with innocent passions
Knowing no other future
Can hold us together.

Leaving, awakened
Minds awhile introxicated
We force
push each away from each
Fearing reckonings and
answers for the great unasked
Knowing with certainty
Nothing of us even mattered.

02/09/01
Balibago, Angeles City