Showing posts with label A Stilled Harp. Show all posts

Literary: Phobia





Mouth frozen, rendered speechless
Bones paralyzed, crushed to pieces
Blood rushed rapidly, making me faint
Heart is beating, about to burst into flames

Don’t look at it
Don’t touch that
Don’t dare do that to me
Don’t make me do that

Keep that thing far away
Kill that thing, throw it away
Open the door, let in some space
Turn on the flashlight to keep your pace

Don’t dare talk to me
Don’t ever try come near me
Please stop staring, just keep walking
Will you please stay away from me?

When will it come?
No one knows
How can I stop it?
No one dared show

Like a spider, it crawls to catch you
Like blood, it rapidly flows through your veins
Like water, it drowns you to death
Like the dark, it swallows you into nothingness

Like enclosed spaces, it strangles you
Like heights, it pushes you into endlessness
Like strangers, it gives you uncertainty
Like light, it burns everything you see

Fear is like being possessed
It controls your soul, makes it lost
By just looking at its darkest side
You fail to see life’s beautiful signs

So better yet, treat fear this way
With these rules, it’ll save your day:

Don’t look at it
Don’t touch it
Don’t make yourself do it
Don’t make it do something to you

Keep that thing far away
Kill it, throw it away
Open the door, let in some space
Turn on the flashlight to keep your pace

Don’t dare talk to it
Don’t try to come near it
Stop staring, just keep walking
Stay away from it

Literary: Where Is It?





I quietly sat in the corner, trying to imagine how it feels like to be left alone in the dark. There’s a great number of reports coming from the village that mysterious creatures came to roam around the area. According to witnesses, some are wide toothed, winged, some have faces that are covered with fresh flowing blood while some held a knife in their hand. From 125, the village’s population had a sudden drop to 50. It meant losing a great number of men, women, children and the elderly, not to mention a large number of animals seen with a slit throat in these past few weeks.

Am I sure of this task? As a paranormal expert, well, I must be. But the only difference is that I won’t be dealing with ghosts.
Mythical Creatures like the Aswang, Tikbalang, Tiyanak are now the main targets of my search.

Right beside me, stood a grandfather clock, whose pendulum sounds echoed in the deserted living room. Frighteningly, every tick probably counts the remaining seconds of my life, while its every tock represents my heartbeat before I die. I looked around and saw scratched sofa parts scattered, books of unknown authors sprawled across the floor, the once magnificent chandelier lay crushed down, dusty on the floor. No doubt, this place has become a safe haven for demons.
Ignoring the pendulum’s sound and creepy thoughts that crossed my mind, I took the knife from my pocket and stood. I am a Paranormal Expert. I shouldn’t he scared. But despite these encouragements, I couldn’t deny such creepy thoughts to cross :
Ghostly echoes snapped through my throat,
Howling bellows buzzed through my ears,
Talons scratching sharply made my skin cold as ice

Briskly walking, I prayed silently as I turned into a nearby room to search. I veered the door open and breathed deeply, making myself ready in case of a horrific sight. But it wasn’t what I expected.
Everything in the room is in order. The old bed‘s covers are neat, the books on the shelves remained untouched and the cool, still air told me that this place has been inhabited before.
However, something bothers me.
It’s the blood stain on the window.
Never had I seen this kind of sign before.
Does it mean that someone has been killed in this place before? Was he or she possibly killed by a monster?

You must be thinking if I’m shuddering right now. Well, I do.
Only one way to find out if that is really blood or not. I slowly went close to the window, and with my finger, tried to scrape the blood on it. It was scary to find that it wasn’t dry, which means that it’s still fresh, and the murdering thing just happened a few minutes ago. Frightened more than ever, I decided to turn back and leave this room.
Unfortunately, the door was locked.

Did I, myself, lock the door?
Or did someone else do it?
No. It can’t be.
Turning back to the window, I was hoping I would be able to escape through it.

Looking at it again, I think I see more blood on that window. I balled my fists in fright.
Only if I could break the glass . . .
Only if I could kick the door open . . .
Killing my nerves, I rummaged through the closet to look for something hard or metallic. But another sight made my nerves burst.

On the corner of the shelf, was a human skull lined together with the severed heads of a dog, carabao, ducks, and other animals killed in these past few weeks.
Reaching for a metal bat on the corner, did I really hear something, or was it just my imagination? I looked across the shelf.

Everything is in order. Nothing in here.
Look up. . .
Still nothing.
Except, I haven’t looked behind . . .

Literary: Questions of a Child




Where is my mama?
Where is my papa?
Who is my brother?
Who is my sister?

What is my food?
What is this toy?
What color is this?
What shape is that?

What comes before “A”?
What comes before five?
What does an airplane look like?
How does a Tiger growl?

What’s an apple?
What’s one plus two?
What’s one minus one?
What’s two letters after “T”?

Who can play with me?
May I borrow your toy?
What will mama cook for dinner?
Who will do the storytelling?

Who loves my parents?
Who loves my siblings?
Who loves my family?
No one else but me!

But, wait, where is mama going?
Papa, why are you crying?
Where are my siblings?
Are they gone too?

Papa! Papa! Let’s go find them!
Where could they be?
How come they just left me?
No one else but me?

Papa! Papa! Why’d you hit me?
Why? What did I do?
Papa? What’s that knife for?
Papa! No! Don’t kill me!

Where should I escape?
Off the window! Away!
Should I find mama?
Where could she be?

Where are they?
Should they be at the bakery?
Should they be at the church?
Or should they be inside the woods?

Will they be okay?
I hope they’re safe
It’s getting dark?
What time is it?

Where should I go?
Where should I stay?
Would it be dangerous
If I just stayed here?

Why am I crying?
Mama told me not to cry
Where is mama?
I need her hug!

I wandered across streets
I picked up a tin can
And through roads and houses
All I do is beg

Tired, I sat at the sidewalk
And at the corner I’ll stay
Sobbing, tears falling,
I am not ready to say.

Why do people fight?
Why are there bad people?
Why do they kill?
Why don’t they love?

Why are they selfish?
Why are there liars?
Why do they abuse children?
Why are there people suffering?

Why are there street children?
Why do men still rape little girls?
Why do good people suffer?
Why do bad people have good lives?

Why did heaven allow this?
I thought there were angels
Why should life be this hard?
How much do I have to suffer?

Why was I abandoned?
Why did no one get me?
Would no one adopt me?
Would no one help?

Are there answers to my questions?
Is this how people suffer?
Why out of all children?
Why me?

Literary: Stitched




Stitches, stitches
Which thread do I pick?
Do I do a backstitch
Or do I do a random stitch?

Stitches stitches
It feels as if my heart is in stitches
Such memories I’ve rendered
That badly I wanted to surrender

Stitches stiches
Stitches in my mind
I grab my needle and thread
To stitch everything and have a rest

Stitches stitches
Something crawled into my mind
Hands wringing then stiffening
Teeth gnarled, I’m about to scream-

Stitches, stitches:
The room’s now full of stitches
Through the cracks of the ceilings
Threads and stitches you’ll see

Red over black
Then black over red
A thin thread of black
A thick thread of red

Stitches stitches
The wall’s adorned with stitches,
All pictures and memories
Fastened with threads

Stitches stitches
My ballpens are in stitches,
So are my watches,
My morning clock
My study lamp.

Down in the kitchen,
It’s also full of stitches.
Stitches in the cupboard
Through its wooden doors

Stitches on the refrigerator.
Through its metallic doors
Inside are my apples
That are in stitches

Through its red cavity
Wound the same threads
Always red and black
Always thick over thin

Look at my watermelons.
My cakes, my sauces
Salt and other spices
Nothing left not in stitches

Next is my living room--
My stitched living room.
The glass window is stitched,
So are the clocks and calendars.

My whole house is in stitches;
My car, my plants.
All are in stitches,
Even the cement walls are in stitches

The only thing that wasn’t stitched--
Isn’t stitched, is me.
I took my needle and thread
And to people like you, I said:

“Deep inside my chest,
There’s something torn into pieces
It’s just there waiting,
Waiting to get stitched.”

So, to ignore the pain,
I stitched everything else in place.
Everything that I could see:
Stitched it would be.

You might say “She’s insane,”
Or “She’s just in vain.”
But I hope you’ll understand
What this really meant

The red thread
Is the what you have presented
What I expect is love
But what you give is blood

The black thread
Represents the darkness
Which you’ve drawn into me
Like a disease invading a body

I did everything I can
I made your quilt
Which you use when in cold
In the middle of the night

I made your towel
Which you use when working
In the middle of the day
Through the fields of grain

I made your blanket
Which I cover you with
Everytime when you’re sick
Or when it’s time for sleeping

Now I tried to forget
Forget these things
And control the anger
Through stitching objects

Stitches stitches
I won’t stop with stitches
I grab my needle and thread
And start stitching, forget the rest
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