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We walk through the muddy road. Where blades of grasses touch our legs,. Our hands where veins are visible. Suggest hard-work in the farm. Where we help our parents. In harvesting lanzones and rambutan. We walk through the muddy road. Fast even with bare feet. Following our parents to the farm. Where we used to harvest our own sweat and blood. The substandard electric fan is old. It is unclean but it still works.

I hate you, she said. Played over and over,. And read on my phone. A college freshman asks his final exam. In the hands of small maria,.

you dont have to care. A Collection of Ten Poems. Dear Uncle Don, the house. Is gray and woody for more. By the dark stains from the hands. Of people who go in and out,.

I chose Poetry because I thought it was the easiest genre. There was no easy way or short way or right way. You tried to incorporate your life experiences together with your imagination into the lines of poetry. What really is Poetry? Friday, March 26, 2010. To the absence of condom sometime in July 2009, I owe everything in this thesis to you equipped with the rawest self I had. But also it is love. To my twin sister, I LOVE YOU.