
After playing with words and twisting thought,
My pen drops on sand as fist clenches.
My back bends to vomit, my throat taut.
Oh God, I think the rage in me dances.
I use a ballpoint to reopen wounds; to rage, release.
To my right, a bottle cries for lips.
But I let blood flow a little more; to some, disease.
To my left, an ocean dies, no ships.
Scabs, scabs, scabs.
Scabs on sand and water.
Never to heal - always to the slaughter.
Philippine Panorama, April, 1993