Pronouns: Poems, Rants & Everything In Between

pronouns poems, rants and other things in between

cbpe単a

PRONOUNS Š All rights reserved 2014 No part of this book may be reproduced, printed/reprinted or re-distributed, in print or otherwise, without written consent from the author Layout by HappyHourProductions Photo by CBPhotography Written in East Coast, Singapore

P

ronouns are a peculiar lot. Used to replace nouns to avoid repetition, they find themselves repeated in lieu of a part of speech deemed more important than they are– so important that their names cannot be repeated too often, and instead are replaced by a “stunt double” who does all the dirty work for them– and then be asked to leave the set when the important close-up is shot.

This short compilation is dedicated to all of us who were asked to do the dirty work, for the sake of another whose only function is to be pretty in front of the camera and give the variety of head shots required of them: because that’s the only thing they are good at. Close-ups. To you who do the dirty work, chin up. We don’t need the NOUN to define who we are as PRONOUNS.

pronouns

poems, rants and other things in between by Carlo Pe単a

i don’t need you to define who i am who i want to be and what i intend myself to become i don’t need your definitions your smug face to agree to say this is who i am and what you want me to become i am who i am not a prisoner of your atoned understanding of what is and what is not to become.

you saw who i was behind the curtains that hid people from those who looked for someone to blame their understanding of this world that chooses to mislead, to mistreat, to suffocate the weak and applaud the strong who make fun of the weak through his laws and his flawed ways.

you took my hand from behind the curtains that helped people escape from those who stare blindly at you, at me, at eveyone with little remorse for your actions, nor mine– flung from the world into your arms into a place i hid no more a place you made for us a place our hearts called home.

you

HE

he took me for a ride on a bike made of straw of promises scattered all over the damp floor he took me for a walk along a path only he knew a path of forgotten sorrows of momentary loss

he took me for a swim in a pool of shards and nails stolen from houses, built by hands by blood, by hidden strands he took me for a drink to see myself clearer in a mirror made of wheat hay, barley and hearts that fleat

she she fell, face flat on the floor, smudged with lime and love and pussy riot and fame of gaza and ukraine.

she sat beside me turning heads, yet not her own. stronger than most of everyone i knew and everyone i loved.

she came hard, harder every time i did slowly at first, and then in undulating pulses that met mine at her core

she kept looking outside the window that hung silently as a backdrop to the moon who laughed devilishly at me while she quietly succumbed to the grit.

it

it came to me like a thief in the night a silent cry that only you could hear. slowly, it crept under my skin and bore a hole deep in my dermis – speaking in violent, suffocating arias that only you could hear. it seemed to be like the clarity of sorts of craving for someone, for something only to find comfort in surreal reality that only you could hear.

we were once a part of a bigger us thriving in the dullness of togetherness that we were once alive teeming though burnt flesh torn into shreds hearts left to unfold what we were once and now what we became fragments of our former selves former friends, former foes.

we

they took her there to where her sun never shone where her moon failed to dance and the rain failed to console

they took her there where tears failed to fall and flowers melted in shame to the beat of a boastful tome

they they took her there she did not scream, nor ask for help, or sacrifice only failed attempts, nothing more.

our lives are but mere canvasses to fate– sad excuses to make mistakes, of catching lovers in bed with another; or winning races, only to be smashed by an onslaught of headlights called gossip. we take turns in helping fate laugh, using our lives as slapstick skits woven in neverending sequences and segues, never to end, always on reruns, and never missing a bullock of a commercial.

our my life is a constant mockery of fate, who jeers incessantly of the times i fell in love– with you of all people– only to find myself weeping of sorrow, yet begging for more.

his

his hands fell silently on my lap– a wretched reminder of why i hated myself to begin with. Soon his hands started making their move from over my thighs, and hovering close to my hips. i pushed them away, and yet found both solace and fear in them, those hands. calmly, he pulled me closer, clutching my bosom, those hands

frightening every pulse that rocked my soul, my essence, my thoughts.

he whirled me away, his hands, there in a flurry of hair, musk, smoke, ash– forever drowning me in heaty arias only to be fooled, mocked, left behind. his hands. those hands. they bind. they forbid. they lie.

this this is just what the doctor had ordered: an capsule of tears a tablet of lies a pill of truths a dosage of cries. this is what the farmer had sown: a pile of misery a garden of woes

a bushel of heartaches a cornfield of thorns. and this is what i sentenced myself: a lifetime of searching an eternity of regrets seven years of forgiveness and a jail cell of frets.

who

who calls to me at the dead of night my saviour lost in the wilderness

sickened by the stench of beloved once, now gone promises written in water and lust whispered in gasps

what little love and sunlight left in this mourning of hearts and hands, and souls, and breasts alas! forsaken now little angels holding tightly speaking tongues, keeping faith what salvation does a saviour bring but silence, stillness, death.

MYS myself. a picture worth burning. a heart worth scathing.

myself. a scoundrel of sorts. a trickster, and yet

i am a perfect example of a life that should’ve doused

i find myself alluding what has been obvious all the while–

years ago when there was the opportunity to relieve myself

a person of quiet eyes and deep thoughts so sinister

of an existence i thought i did not deserve.

and yet find solace in the light that blinds even the good.

SELF myself. seemingly unworthy–maybe. almost certain to be sinned.

myself. now chosen, saved, forgiven– only but myself to liberate me.

and yet, i have realised that i too could be chosen– to become

i am a collection of undying faith hardened by experience, yet

a part of what lies beyond the curtains of those sad, lonely eyes–

softened by your love, your touch your words, your cross–

and be blessed beyond what my heart says i deserve.

i am a work in progress, and you are the hands that mold.

CARLO VENSON PEÑA is a facilitator by training. He is pursuing a doctorate in Educational Administration, and has finished a master’s degree in development studies. He is married with one daughter named after him. http://www.issuu.com/carlovenson/docs All rights reserved © Written in East Coast, Singapore