what-I-know-about-faith

i used to love coffee
the way I love writing
but i grew tired,
no,
not the sleep-deprived notion,
not the writer’s-block kind,
it was something
deeper, cavernous
abysmal, unfathomable
pit-black-hole
—void

i was fatigued,
drained,
whacked by this existence,
the coffee of grief
was running in the interior
of my delicate veins,
the rose-colored life
became dark words
written in blue
—blues

i was at the
lowest point,
when He saw me,

i, i was
tainted by dirt;
painted by sorrow;
kissed by shame;
embraced by misery
never at my best
—constantly at worst

“and I still love(d) you”
He gently said

out of my reverie
i smiled,
with the cup of
creamy coffee on the table,
a pen within my grasp,
Suddenly,

He is the only One worth writing about.

Poems of trībulātiō (#3)

i wrote

this song

about trouble;

how one’s

being can

cause chaos

in one’s

universe,

the verses

were intended

to say

how i

feel,

how the

planet of

thoughts explored

the city

i have

built,

how each

thought is

rotating in

the infinite

galaxy that

i’ve made,

let me

tell you,

i wasn’t

talking about

the collision

of stars,

the glistening

dust,

or the

breathtaking moon,

i wrote

this song

about trouble

with nothing

but your smile,

gratifyingly

wandering

in my

mind

-m.r 

High-strung Man

They say that a rough man don’t cry, as if crying is an incurable disease that can never be cured once detected. Men don’t belong in the vulnerable sector—they can handle themselves, they are the heavy-duty ones, those who can cross the road without any fear of being hit even by the fastest car, those who can jump to the depths of scary black hole without any fear of letting crimson liquid touch the floor, those who can move fast without being tired, those who can swim in the ocean of despair for the people they love, those who didn’t bother themselves to look at the weakest point of this so called life.

The first time I saw my father cry was when his hero died. My Lolo used to be his shield, his rainbow, his savior, his true love, his king—his Achilles heel. The day God opened his arms, tightly embracing my Lolo, he was raging mad. He was howling his voice out to the moon to ask where he went wrong. Why did He take his angel away?

As the first tear fell from his eye, I saw how tough he was.

The second time I saw my father weep was when they fell out of love. My mother was and is his Queen—but at some point of a man’s life, he tried to wander. Tempted by the enflaming fire of his heart’s desire, he gradually opened his being to the world of lost innocence and lures. He hugged the devilish side of this world and un-kissed the beauty of an angelic girl given by God. No, I was wrong when I said they fell out of love—he was just once lost and by saying “Sorry.”, and hearing “I forgive you.” back, he was found.

As the second tear fell from his eyeI built the walls up to the skies, as the resentment took over my heartI, I didn’t feel anything.

The third time I saw my father shed a tear was when I turned my back on toys and started wearing the big girl shoe. I never saw myself as his princess. I never saw myself as someone who will hear “I’m so proud of you.” He was the authoritative one. He was the final say. He was the huge wall that you just can’t simply bump yourself into. He was the cold one, the stone. So, I made up a barrier where only laughs and smiles can be passed to the other side, but weeping and sadness cannot be seen or felt by his being—he whose blood’s running on mine; he whose heart was used to build mine; he whose being was just an ordinary being for me. But that special day, I took down the upper part of my walls and he kissed me on my forehead; without any words need to be uttered I felt the warmness of being protected.

As the third tear fell from his eye while uttering the words for me, in frontage of crowd, I saw how loved I was.

And tonight, for the fourth time, I saw my father withdraw a doleful wail when he said; “I’m tired.” He got home, drunk and not ware, not in his usual knack. He was peacefully lying on his bed while articulating words that long filled his heart; “I’m getting tired too, I’m getting really tired.” with his voice slowly breaking, his eyes producing the water of grief that have convinced me that he belongs to the vulnerable zone too—with his words trying to get out, bit by bit, all the broken pieces of his demolished wall was in front of my feet.

As the fourth tear fell from his eye, to impossible quantity of pieces, it broke my heart.  

 

Maybe the beer didn’t lessen his strength. No, it didn’t.

“Do you love Me more than these?”

“Do you love me more than these?” each of them asked.

And without any doubt you answered, “Yes”, full of conviction and assurance to give your all—and so you did.

You offered them the moon with the glistening dust in the vastly night skies. They became your poem, your prose and every word in your vocabulary. You sing them to sleep even when your throat can’t function well anymore; you endlessly played the guitar even when your hands were already full of blisters due to too much use of it. Every good morning text and wake up call, every good night sigh and write-up song, every blissful hi and ecstatic let’s-go-out, everything… everything was devoted and only for them.

You gave too much, and that’s the entry point for hollowness.

Void.

You found yourself, in the midst of nowhere—alone and finding no comfort in solitude—enduring the heat of the sun on your bare skin, the roughness of the road on your bare feet, tasting the salty water of grief coming from your beautiful eyes—covered up with your smudge mascara—and barely breathing, walking with no direction at all.

“Do you love me more than these?” each of them asked, for the nth time.

And without any doubt you answered, “Yes”.

You answered “Yes”, the “yes” felt like the last coin in your pocket, the last piece of pizza in the box, the last strawberry flavored cake in the counter, the last butternut—the last breathe of serenity; the last hope you have; the last sigh of relief and the last smile your face could display.

“Do you love me more than these?” It was your turn to ask.

But you heard nothing. You heard nothing but the sound of footsteps intending to walk away from you. You were standing in the core of darkness with not a single soul to stand beside you. The entire yes’s you gave led you to all the no’s this world could offer.

“Do you love Me more than these?” Someone asked. The voice was different from the others, so soothing and so calm. But the familiarity of it faded, as for the last time you heard the question, emptiness found you.

It hit you. “These” sounds massive, big and wholly, as if it would take your life, the totality of what makes you, all your possessions, all that you could breathe and all that you could give—all your all.

You have decided to be selfish. You have decided to give none. You chose to stay silent despite of the question haunting you every minute.

“Do you love Me more than these?”

“Do you love Me more than these?”

“Do you love Me more than these?”

No response.

The statement was answerable by “yes” or “no” but it was like a lump in your throat—to answer is to break you.

“Do you love Me more than these?” The voice asked, over and over again.

Patiently waiting…

Until, “Tell me, how? How to give when I have none? How to love when my heart is no longer functioning the way it that should? I have nothing but this hollowness inside my chest, this darkness in my soul, this heart that is broken and this soul that is aching to surrender what’s left. How? How can I say yes when I have nothing but no? How can I love when I have nothing at all?” You blasted out as your knees touched the ground, with your hands covering your face that was full of tears.

He stared at you for an ephemeral moment, until a smile find its way to His face.

“Do you love Me more than these?”

“…more than these—these heartbreaks, mundaneness, this pain, this agony and these tears. Do you love Me more than these—these resources, these approvals, these school works, and this wealth? Do you love Me more than the “yes” from others, the moon and the stars the world had already gave you. Do you love Me more than these—all these, everything that’s keeping you from seeing me, from loving me?”

“…because I love you beyond these.”

That was when your heart started aching. How could someone possibly break a heart with such gentleness? How could someone possibly light the whole town with such words? How could someone possibly give hope to the hopeless, how could He possibly replace strength to one’s weakness?

“Do you love Me more than these?” He asked. And there was no other way to count on your fingers how many times.

You have never seen a love so faithful—adhering firmly to one’s soul, a love so selfless, a love that endures—until you saw yourself, standing before the cross, blood dripping from the wounds of a Man, and the hammer within your grasp. You have nailed Him but He was still smiling, praying for you, waiting for you to hold his hand again, and loving you with all His will and heart. He is a victor over sin and death; He came from the grave to the sky in pursuance of you.

That was a love; a love that is so worthy of every “yes”.

“Yes.” You finally responded, full of conviction and assurance to give your all—and so you did, this time for the right person for all the right reasons.

 “I love you, beyond measure.” God retorted back.