Ang init sa Rizal ay init probinsiya.

Init na anytime pwede kang kumain ng mangga.

Init na pwede kang maglatag sa ilalim ng puno at mamahinga.

Init na para kang malambot na pandesal na bagong luto sa umaga.

Ang init sa Rizal ay init probinsiya.

Init na amoy fabcon na umaagos sa kalsada galing sa kapitbahay niyong naglalaba.

Init ng mga sinampay na nakadantay sa mga alambre habang niluluto ng araw.

Init na anytime pwede mong pikitan, idlipan, salingan.

Ang init sa Rizal ay init na tahimik, hindi galit, hindi namamaso;

init na hindi nanunundo pa-impyerno.

Ang init sa Rizal ay pwede mong saluhan ng malamig na halo-halo, kahit na peke ang ube nito.

Ang init sa Rizal ay ang init na hahanapin ko, kahit ibang init na ang pumapaso sa balat ko.

Ang init sa Rizal ay ang init na babalikan ko.

. —agn

It’s hard to see that the people you adore and cherish are sometimes not likable. I often forget that people are not just one character. Some friends can be good friends, but bad co-worker. A mother can be a good mother but also a bad wife. A father can be a good leader but a bad father. A teacher could be a good teacher but also a bad friend. And what’s cruel is that, most of the time their dislikable characters are what often sticks the most. I am a victim of this, and I started disliking some of my friends, friends that are really good friends but just so unprofessional. My father, who has worked hard, who’s been a very good employee, such a hard worker, and a good leader; but I hate his emotional immaturity. My mother sacrificed everything for her family, but I dislike how unsubstantial her character is, no life, just endless scrolling on the internet most of the time for nothing.

In the world where counting red flags is a scale to crucify someone, it is hard to actually see what makes a person a good person and a bad person.

But then again, what does all of this have to do with me? So what if I don’t like some of their characters as a person. They weren’t born only for me. I guess this is my projection. I always say, every negative thing we say to people is an unconscious projection of how we see ourselves. When will I accept that I will never be perfect? That I do not need to please people, not even my friends, not even my family. When will I accept that it won’t matter how many mistakes I will make in this lifetime. When will I accept that I am a human, and I’m meant to make mistakes, and say the wrong things. And when will I learn to forgive myself in order to forgive those people that I like whenever their character disappoints me?

You are not a missing piece,

I want nothing from you.

You are not a missing piece,

And I don't need you.

You are not a missing piece,

And there is no place you would fit.

You are not a missing piece,

You are whole yourself.

You are not a missing piece,

You are the puzzle itself.

You are not a missing piece,

And neither am I.

We are not a missing piece,

So maybe we can just be on each other's side.

slow burn

love grown

bond molds

heart glows

finders keep

secrets kept

time tells

heart waits

If there is so much time on earth

How come our timing is wrong?

How would fate react,

If I searched on every shelf for that perfect clock?

Suddenly the poems I wrote was feather

With heart shaped squiggles in the end

Written with gel pen glitters.

And suddenly the sonnets make sense

No questions asked, no second thoughts,

Words were formed for the exact moments.

And every lyrics become narrations

Like fate made stories,

Conceal it in beats, then decipher itself.

And the sun doesn't burn too much anymore

Just the right light, and warm touch

That blushes my cheeks just enough.

Everything suddenly make sense.

Yet still the same.

Not perfect.

Exact.

Right.

Oh.

Some words are stucked

Shoved

On my throat.

Like a fish gagged on a pebble.

Only the fearless

Fish,

Willfully endure the grit.

November that tastes like lavender cream

November for ghosted spirits and candle dreams

November, like Thursday nights on the street

November for cold evenings and quiet minute

November Rain sung by Guns N' Roses

November smells like sleep and sadness

November, in my eyes, was November.

November was the month they can't wait to pass.

November could not care less if it was November.

It's a NO always in November

There is no such thing as one form of beauty.

As beauty is like a lettuce.

It's neutral but fresh

It's delicate but loud

It is the same but different

And It goes through within and out.

Each leaves vary in appearance and sizes.

Each layers of beauty differs from desire and darkness.

While all still deem as artistry and beauty.

Each beauty can be singular or full.

And each beauty can be taken alone or along,

but never nothing at all.