The Voice of an Orphan

The Voice of an Orphan

I am an orphan; my age was 16 last June. Happy? No, I am not. I am lonely because at the age of nine I am parentless, penniless and even futureless. But they say i am beautiful. This beauty would lead me unto the galaxy of stardom.  In the world of modeling  or singing for instance. Yes, I could be a fashion model or a singer.But I disgrace all of them because of the memories. The past serves as desperation not inspiration. Believe it or not at the age of eight I saw my parents murdered. 

It was a beautiful day in November when we were on our way home from harvesting rice. Smiles on our lips when we were on our way. When suddenly a group of armed men halted us. Without any warning they drove us into a nearby secluded place. And while we were on our way, I could see the tears from my mother's eyes begging the men to set us free. Are you Macario Santiago? You are responsible for the capture of commader Reyes so you ought to be punished. Commander  Reyes? That name is familiar to me I said. Yes. . . yes. . . he was the hulk leader which father gave an information for his capture. No. . . no. . . don't hurt father, he is an ideal father. Please. . . please. . . for the love of God spare my husband.Then they tied father into a bulky tree and started whipping him. Then father shouted as he saw mother being hurt. No. . . no. . . don't do that to my wife. Kill me if you want but not my wife.I knelt down and prayed then bang. . . bang. . . bang. . . I lifted my head and there lay before me the dead bodies of my parents. Inay. . . itay. . . inay. . . itay. . . how could I live without you? But I placed myself to God. I know he will not forsake me. Yes, God will not forsake me.

The Plea of an Aborted Fetus

The Plea of an Aborted Fetus

Set me free. Let me live, I deserve to be born, I want to live. For heavens's sake, have pity.

Ladies and Gentlemen, dear fathers and mothers, listen to my plea, listen to my story. I could have been the 17th Lady President of the Philippines Republic, had you given me the chance to live, had you not deprived me of my life, had you not taken away my privilege to be born.

Some eleven years ago, a healthy ovum started to generate in the womb of a woman with six other children. My coming should be a herald of joy, a symbol of love incarnate but to my mommy it was a burden, a problem, an additional mouth to feed. To Dad, it was a mistake, an effect of mom's carelessness for not taking the contraceptive pills.

One gloomy day in June, my unexpected coming was confirmed. It was a painful decision. I could sense the imminent danger as Mom got inside the abortion room. I was an unwanted child. no one loved me. No one cared. I was a rejected being, a tiny lump slowly forming into human being with human soul. I was already beating and my thumb had already the unique mark. As I was holding strongly to my mother's womb a splash of heat came over me. I writhed in extreme pain.

-Mom, why have you done this to me? Am I not the flesh of your own flesh, the blood of your own blood?

The rubber suction caught my tiny limbs and mercilessly twisted it slowly cutting it from my body. I struggled for my life. 1,2,3 and the first part of me came out.

-Mom, why have you permitted this? Am I not Dad's pledge of love to you? Then it was followed by another rubber suction sucking the other part moving it with force until both were fully amputated.

-Mom, why have you done this to me? Am I not God's image you promised to love and protect? Then I felt shaken once, twice, several times until I do not know anymore what has been going around. I gushed forth my breath. . .

Then came the final blow, my head- the abortionist termed as No. I was totally cut from my torso; total annihilation.

Gone is my chance to lead a healthy normal life.

Gone is my chance to behold the many lovely things God created for us

Gone is the promise of a blissful life.

Gone, gone forever.

Hooked in Drug

Hooked in Drug

My hands, my arms, my head, my body. I am shivering. I am trembling, what is happening. Yeah, mom's jewelry box. I need it. I must get it. yes, I need several thousand of pesos to sustain me, to give way to my vice. Do you hear that? I need money for cocaine, I am helpless drug dependent.

It started out with a simple invitation to experience what is new. Little just little, once just once ... until I started yearning for it. Until I find out I cannot stand without having it more often.

Dad is too busy with his political career, wooing people to vote for him in a congressional seat in our province. Mom was equally occupied to grace the local dailies for her charitable projects left and right. I was left alone all to myself. It was only yaya who kept me company, pampering my every need. Cars, money, good time, all I wanted. Name them, I get them. Tired with all these I looked for more until I explored drugs with Fred, my friend. I started to change from good reserved individual to an out-going, happy go lucky. I became an illusive lawbreaker with dad and mom's influence.

What? Do you know if this ever made happy? No, I am not. I want peace I don't and cannot find peace. The urge to use drug becomes so strong and irresistible. This is the best escape I find over the emptiness and unworthiness of my wasted, meaningless and aimless existence.

Do you understand I want to change but I cannot. All I need is to end my life. This is truly a useless life.

Goodbye beautiful life, beautiful world. Goodbye Dad and Mom  I don't deserve you (bang,bang)

Bastard

Bastard

Penoy, Balot. . .Penoy, Balot.

Yes Penoy, Balot has been my means of livelihood.

I am Martha. Please listen to my story. Like you we may be both victims of circumstances. I was born out a wedlock to a young colegiala who swayed off her feet when she became madly in love with a young man of the flickerville.

Bastard, bastard, that's hoe they called me. Society condemned me for a crime not of my own making but just a mistake by destiny. I have never felt what a father's love was and worst of them too much misery drove my mother out of her sanity. I was oftentimes beaten mercilessly for every little misdeed.
One evening I got home late. Right at the door mother was there with her long stick. Without a word she hit me mercilessly.

"Please, mother, stop it. I beg you." I was alt\ready bleeding until I could no longer take it. Before I knew it, I felt blood oozing on my forehead. Crimson Blood!

"Mother, why do you do this to me."

But that didn't stop her. She got the bolo and was about to strike me that I ran as fast as I could to save my life. All i know was a speeding car went between us. . .SHHHHH

When I turned my back I saw Inay lay helplessly.

"Inay", all I could say. I ran back to embrace the lifeless body of Inay.

"Good lord! Why did you permit this- You are my mother. Inay, I love you inspite of what has been.

Dirty Hands

Dirty Hands

I’m proud of my dirty hands.  Yes, they are dirty.  And they are  rough and knobby and calloused.  And I’m proud of the dirt and the knobs and the calluses.  I didn’t get them that way by playing bridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups, or playing the well-advertised Good Samaritan at charity balls.

I got them that way by working with them, and I’m proud of the work and the dirt.  Why shouldn’t I feel proud of the work they do – these dirty hands of mine? My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners; of carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel. They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die. Someday, I think, the world should go down on its knees and kiss all the dirty hands of the working world, as in the days long past, armored knights would kiss the hands of ladies fair.  I’m proud of my dirty hands.  The world has kissed such hands.  The world will always kiss such hands.  Men and women put reverent lips to the hands of Him who held the hammer and the saw and the plane.  His weren’t pretty hands either when they chopped trees, dragged rough lumber, and wielded carpenter’s tools. They were workingman’s hands – strong, capable proud hands.  And weren’t pretty hands when the executioners got through them.  They were torn right clean through by ugly nails, and the blood was running from them, and the edges of the wounds were raw and dirty and swollen; and the joints were crooked and the fingers were horribly bent in a mute appeal for love.

They weren’t pretty hands then, but, Oh God, they were beautiful – those hands of the Savior.  I’m proud of those dirty hands, hands of my Savior, hands of God. And I’m proud of my hands too, dirty hands, like the hands of my Savior, the Hands of my God!

I Killed Her

I Killed Her

I killed her because I do love her. These hands, these hands that give life to many, killed her because of my love to her.

Ladies and Gentlemen of this honorable court, please listen to me, listen to my story before you give my verdict. I am Dr. Reyes, a cancer specialist. I was born in a slum district of Batalon. My father oh! I don't know him for I am a child of faith. My mother brought me up in such determination and my ambition was to escape the filthy and horrible place of Batalon. I was nourished with hope that someday I might live a life different from her. My mother had a burning faith that she turned the nights into days. All her efforts were not in vain for I pushed through with flying colors. My mother who had given her whole life to me had tears in her eyes as she pinned the gold medal on my proud breast.

Later on, I was sent as a scholar of the Philippines to the United States of America. I embraced my mother… tightly as I've reached the plane….."Mother, mother,.." I whispered. You will always be my best mother in the world.

After four years, I came back with laurels. I became a cancer specialist. I gave my mother everything but I was too late. I who had used to ease the pain of many, came too late to the life of my dying mother. I gave the best treatment but the grasp of death was so tight around her. My God, what is the use of ten years of study if I couldn't even use it at my mother's pain.

Then one night, I heard a strange cry. I run to her room. "Do you love me, child?"… she asked, as I embrace her. " Yes, mother….. If only I could get all your pain and agonies…"

"Then….. if you love me, end my sufferings, kill me… Let me die."

"But, mother, I promise to give life and not to end it."

God…. She did not deserve the unhappiness. She deserves to be happy.

I run to my room and came back with a syringe.

"Mother, forgive me…. God, please understand me…."

"Mother, mother, you must not die….. Don't leave, I love you. It was only a distilled water…..Mother…… Mother……. MOTHER……"

Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, give me your verdict. Yes, it was only distilled water which ended the sufferings of my mother.

Judge me….. Punish me………

GO, punish me………….. Thy will be done!!!

A Heathen Declamation

A Heathen Declamation

I am unique

There is no one else exactly like me

And yet I am one with the whole of nature

I serve the power that moves the universe

For I exist in the universe

And the soul of the universe

Manifests through me

I have the right to be all that I am

My innermost soul is divine and complete

I am honoured with the charge to exceed myself

That the outer manifestation

May be truer to the core reality

Oh thou who givest sustenance to the universe

From whom all things proceed

And unto whom all things must return

Grant me authentic beauty of soul

May the outward and the inward life be at one

I stand before the Mighty Ones

Uncovered in reverence and clothed in space

I pray with all sincerity

That thou unveil to me

The face of the true spiritual sun

And reveal unto me the runes

That I may know the truth

And do my whole duty              

As I journey to thy sacred feet

The Song of the Shirt

The Song of the Shirt

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread– S

titch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work — work — work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It’s Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

"Work — work — work

Till the brain begins to swim;

Work — work — work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!

It is not linen you’re wearing out,

But human creatures’ lives!

Stitch — stitch — stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

Sewing at once with a double thread,

A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

But why do I talk of Death?

That Phantom of grisly bone,

I hardly fear its terrible shape,

It seems so like my own —

It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep;

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,

And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work — work — work!

My Labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread — and rags.

That shatter’d roof — and this naked floor —

A table — a broken chair —

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

"Work — work — work!

From weary chime to chime,

Work — work — work!

As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,

As well as the weary hand.

"Work — work — work,

In the dull December light,

And work — work — work,

When the weather is warm and bright —

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling

As if to show me their sunny backs

And twit me with the spring.

Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —

With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want

And the walk that costs a meal!

Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,

But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread —

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —

Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

I Wish I Were Not Born

I Wish I Were Not Born

I walked on tiptoed. Dad must be home now. How my heart bleed when Mom left him for abroad. No amount of mom's explanation could appease my anger. Why did she do this? My poor Dad! now I see every reason why he has to come home late, why he has to drink. He must, I even told myself. He deserves to give way to his emotions.

I walked quietly and slowly turned in the door knob. The greatest secret unfolded before my naked eyes. I caught Dad in a very compromising situation with our driver. My whole world shattered; my knees trembled. Discovery even made it more shocking. Dad is a homosexual! What is this? I shouted.

I wish I were not born. Damn you! And I ran as fast as I could. That was many years ago.

I wanted to end my life. I was like a little kitten with no one to turn to. Helpless and confused I started to pick up every piece of my broken life. The father with whom I should feel secure and protected failed me a hundred times. He did not have the arms to protect me from harm. Instead he brought me shame and untold misery. The mother whom I need to embrace to strengthen me and love me left. Parents, why do you fail me? Where else can we find solace in our dark moments of despair? What have you done?

LRT Bombing

LRT Bombing

Bread. Bread. . .spare me a piece of bread. Believe me, I don't want to society but fate dooms me to this deplorable situation.

We used to be a happy family. Dad was a good provider until that pitiful day in May. All I could remember was Mom crying over the sad news of Dad's untimely death. He died in an airplane crush and his remains was nowhere to be found.

Mom gallantly took her responsibility as our guide and provider. Benjo, Mom and I made up the happy family we were once.

A day before New Year, we took the LRT to evade the heavy traffic. I was in pink dress, matched with a pink ribbon. As I mused with towering edifice on our way to lola, a great Commotion ensued. Mom embraced me tightly to shield me from apparent danger. Everything went fast. BOOM. . . A DESTRUCTIVE EXPLOSION WENT OUT.

"RIZZA, take care," she said and finally loosened her hold on me. Her look was gloomy and slowly she closed her eyes as she gave forth her last.

"Mom." I cried out loud as I struggled to get out from the broken seat. As I looked at the crowd, I saw everything in disorder; people in commotion and crimson blood oozed from my Mom's forehead.

"Mom," I cried bitterly embracing her lifeless body. Everything went dark, darker until I found myself in a hospital. Worst, Benjo was nowhere to be found.

What awaits a small, incapable girl like me. Nothing but a the bare truth of misfortune-darker than the hundred nights. . . uncertain than a thousand blank reality.

Bread, bread. . . give me a piece of bread.

A Call For Mom And Dad

A Call For Mom And Dad

Ring... ring... ring... is it the phone? My, it's two o'clock in the morning yet. But wait. It is Dad. Has he just got home from the business meeting, maybe... poor Dad! He works so hard for Mom and me.

I walked on tiptoe to the door (another honking was heard ). Oh, is it Mom? Yes and what happens? She looks drunk, swinging her way to the sala.

All I hope was to give them surprise but I get, instead the biggest surprise in my life. Dad, my hero leads a Cassanova lifestyle: wine, women and party. And Mom, the lady behind the recent fund raising campaign is the exact opposite of the image she projected in that last week's PTA event.  A cheat, a liar. How could they do this to me? "You brute," Mom shouted, You think you can always hide things from me? I saw you with your secretary," and she started throwing things at Dad.

"Stop that, Matilde." And he pushes Mom hard enough to the wall.

Is this the home I was eagerly looking forward to return for a vacation? And Dad, is he worth emulating? My Mom, what has gone with her? I got out from my place.

Mom, Dad what's wrong? Benjo,  good you are here. Dad managed to say. We can no longer go on this way anymore. It's no use of hiding things from you I must confess. I love you son. You are the only reason of my staying here. Now it is for good. I must leave the house. Son, please understand. He went up and in an instance he came down with his luggage. Mom seemed to be in the state of shock. All she could do was cry.

Benjo, my son. I can no longer hide the truth. Your Dad and I are never happy. We have to part ways. Please, Son try to understand.

I bite my lips to hold my tears but I held Mom by shoulders. Mom, why has this happened to us? Have you ever thought of the effects on me? That happened a long time ago.

I do not know where Dad is now. It took me long to gather the prices of my broken dreams. All I know is I am very much affected by what happened to us.

To you fathers and mothers present in this hall now, I challenge you to step forward to prove you are not cowards like my own Dad. I challenge you mothers to stay firm and unwavering, never to let your family break.

I am a Filipino

I am a Filipino

I am a Filipino - inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task- the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future. I sprung from a hardy race - child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope- hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children's forever.

This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promise a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof - the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals - the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world no more.

I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes - seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.

That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever; the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañang Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insigne of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.

I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shape of the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.

For, I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, being apart from those world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West - only individuals and nations making those momentous choices that are hinges upon which history resolves.

At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand - a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom and my heart has been lifted by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.

I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:

Land of the Morning,Child of the sun returning…Ne'er shall invadersTrample thy sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants Pampanga; out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing; out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories; out of the crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:

"I am a Filipino born of freedom and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance - for myself and my children's children - forever.

Bad Girl

Bad Girl

Hey! Every Body seems to be staring at me..

You! You! All of you!

How dare you to stare at me?

Why? Is it because I’m a bad girl?

A bad girl I am, A good for nothing teen ager, a problem child?

That’s what you call me!

I smoke. I drink. I gamble at my young tender age.

I lie. I cheat, and I could even kill, if I have too.

Yes, I’m a bad girl, but where are my parents?

You! You! You are my good parents?

My good elder brother & sister in this society were I live?

Look…look at me…What have you done to me?

You have pampered and spoiled me, neglected me when I needed you most!

In trusted me to a yaya, whose intelligent was much lower than mine!

While you go about your parties, your meetings and gambling sessions…

Thus… I drifted away from you!

Longing for a fathers love, yearning for a mothers care!

As I grow up, everything change!

You too have change!

You spent more time in your pokers, mahjong tables, bars and night clubs.

You even landed on the headline of the news paper as crook, peddlers and racketeers.

Now, you call my name; accuse me in everything I do to myself?

Tell me! How good you are?

If you really wish to ensure my future

Then hurry….hurry back home! Where I await you, because I need you…

Protect me from all evil influences that will threaten at my very own understanding…

But if I am bad, really bad…then, you’ve got to help me!

Help me! Oh please…Help me!

Five Loaves of Bread

Five Loaves of Bread

She stood at the bar of justice
A frightened creature wan and wild—
In form too small for a woman,
In feature too old for a child.

For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her lovely face
It seemed that years of suffering
Was something time couldn’t erase.

“Your name?” asked the judge as he eyed her.
“Is Anna Ruiz, Sir,” said the girl.
“And your age?” asked the judge again,
Then girl replied, “I’ve turned fifteen.”

“Well Anna, I’m sorry to say,
That you have been charged today
By your town baker who said,
That you stole five loaves of bread

Do you know that stealing is bad?
And that you have displeased our God?
Do you know that you could be jailed?
And cannot be set free or bailed?”
“Your Honor, I know it was wrong,
But day in and out I walked along
Looking for work so I could earn
Even hard jobs, I’m willing to learn.

But fate’s unkind, my father is dead,
My mother is sick and lying in bed,
My brothers and sisters missed six meals,
They asked for food with eyes full of tears.

What could I do to save them from death?
I myself was losing my breath—
So I took the five loaves of bread,
But I’ll pay with services instead.”

There was silence in the courtroom,
That was suddenly filled with gloom.
The women wiped their tears away,
They heaved a sigh and tried to pray.

All dug into their pockets,
And then brought out their wallets
Sounds were heard of golden coins that fall
Into boxes passed around the hall.

The baker stood up and told the judge
“Your Honor, I’m withdrawing my charge.”
A rich lady gave Anna a job
That helped her and all that she loved.


Adopted from
Guilty or Not Guilty

Murderess

Murderess

It’s already twelve o’clock. Oh, God, I’m hungry! I’ve been running and hiding for almost three days. I’m dead tired. I need some rest. But no, they are looking for me! And if they find me, I will be put to jail. But, where can I hide? Leo’s father is so influential, so powerful. He is the governor of our great province and I happened to kill his son!

No, don’t accuse me like that! I’m not a murderess! Hear me, I’m begging you, I tell you I’m not a murderess.

Audience, let me explain, please.

Okay, okay, okay! It all happened in school one day. I went to the library to find a book. Then I found it. I got so engrossed to what I was reading that I almost didn’t notice the time. It was gone past six and, oh my! I think I was the only student left in the library. To my dismay, Leo was waiting for me outside. I wanted to hide but it was too late. He was already in front of me.

“Hi, Brenda! Can I drive you home?”

I shook my head irritatingly. My God, how I hate him! He often sends me scented love letters in pink stationery which I sent back all unopened. He sends me roses and chocolates, too. They are my favorites. I wanted so much to eat the chocolates, but I hate the person who gave them. So I throw them into the trash. How could I ever get away from this guy?

“Hey, Leo, wait a minute! If you want to drive me home, thanks, but no thanks! I’m old enough to go home on my own, okay? So, please stop following me like a dog! And besides, I’m too young for love and I don’t accept any suitors, understand?”

“But, Brenda, I love you! Can’t you understand? I can give you anything you want. Say it and you’ll have it. And, Brenda, remember, I can get everything I want by hook or crook. So you’d better be good to me or else. Ha… ha… ha…!”

And he started laughing like a monster. I got so scared. I know how powerful his family was, but I still insisted, “Leo, how can you be such a jerk? I don’t like you and I don’t love you. In fact, I hate you! Now, will you leave me alone?”

But instead of leaving, do you know what he did? He pushed me so hard against the wall and started kissing me. I was shouting for help, but no, no one was there!

“Somebody, help me, please! Please, please! Help! Help!”

Then he gave me a big, big punch on my stomach. Oh my God! It was painful!

But even before he reached for me again, I spotted a rusty knife and grabbed it.

“Now, Mr. Leo Monteverde, try to kiss me again, attempt to rape me again, and I will never ever forgive you! Go to hell! Um… um… ummm!”

I didn’t know how many times I pushed the rusty knife in his body. Then I noticed something. Blood, blood… there’s a blood on my hands!

Leo, Leo…! Oh, God! I killed Leo! No, I’m not a murderess! He was going to rape me and I just defended myself. I didn’t mean to do it, I’m not a murderess! I’m not a murderess! But I killed Leo…! I killed him! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! I’m a murderess! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Oh Captain My Captain

Oh Captain My Captain

Oh Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But Oh heart! heart! heart!
Oh the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Oh Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult Oh shores, and ring Oh bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O What Is That Sound

O What Is That Sound

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.

O what is that light I see flashing so clear?
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.

O what are they doing with all that gear?
What are they doing this morning, this morning?
Only their usual maneuvers, dear,
O perhaps a warning.

O why have they left the road down there?
Or why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in the orders, dear.
O haven’t they stopped for the doctor’s care:
Haven’t they reined their horses, their horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
None of these forces.

O is it the parson they want with white hair;
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
And now they are running.

O where are you going? Stay with me, here!
Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.

O it’s broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it’s the gate where they’re turning, turning;
Their feet are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.

Juvenile Delinquent

Juvenile Delinquent

Am I a juvenile delinquent? I’m a teenager, I’m young, young at heart in mind. In this position, I’m carefree, I enjoy doing nothing but to drink the wine of pleasure. I seldom go to school, nobody cares!. But instead you can see me roaming around. Standing at the nearby canto (street). Or else standing beside a jukebox stand playing the nerve tickling bugaloo.Those are the reasons, why people, you branded me delinquent, a juvenile delinquent.

My parents ignored me, my teachers sneered at me and my friends, they neglected me. One night I asked my mother to teach me how to appreciate the values in life. Would you care what she told me? "Stop bothering me! Can’t you see? I had to dress up for my mahjong session, some other time my child". I turned to my father to console me, but, what a wonderful thing he told me. "Child, here’s 500 bucks, get it and enjou yourself, go and ask your teachers that question".

And in school, I heard nothing but the echoes of the voices of my teachers torturing me with these words. "Why waste your time in studying, you can’t even divide 100 by 5! Go home and plant sweet potatoes".

I may have the looks of Audrey Hepburn, the calmly voice of Nathalie Cole. But that’s not what you can see in me. Here’s a young girl who needs counsel to enlighten her way and guidance to strenghten her life into contentment.

Honorable judge, friends and teachers…is this the girl whom you commented a juvenile delinquent?.

It Is Raining

It Is Raining

It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain?
Where would you like to be?
I’d like to be on a city street
Where the rain comes driving down
Trying to make things neat
As it washes the houses, roof and wall
The taxis, buses, cars, and all.
That’s where I’d like to be in the rain
That’s where I’d like to be.

It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain?
Where would you like to be?
I’d like to be in a tall tree top
Where the rain comes dripping drop, drop, drop, drop,
Around on every side –
where it wets the farmers, the barns, the pig.
the cows, the chickens, both little and big.
Where it batters and beats on a field of grain.
And makes the little birds hide from the rain.
That’s where I’d like to be in the rain.
That’s where I’d like to be.

It is raining.
Where would you like to be in the rain?
Where would you like to be?
I’d like to be on a ship at sea
Where everything’s wet as can be
And the waves are rolling high
Where sailors are pulling the ropes and singing
And winds in the rigging and salt’s sprays stinging
And round us sea gulls cry
On a dipping, skimming ship at sea.
That’s where I’d like to be in the rain.
That’s where I’d like to be.

If…

If…

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!