morning, despite everything
they say the mornings here arrive soft—
sunlight slipping through capiz shells,
tricycles coughing awake,
the smell of rice already forgiving the night.
even the light feels negotiated.
like it had to pass checkpoints
before touching our skin.
there is a kind of stubbornness
in being pinoy—
a quiet, inherited insistence
on continuing.
the news hums in the background
like a faulty electric fan,
spinning stories that feel rehearsed,
promises folded into press releases,
truth edited for comfort.
someone is boiling coffee in a dented pot,
someone is laughing too loudly at nothing,
someone is sweeping dust
that will return tomorrow.
without naming it too often,
because to name it
is to admit how much it costs
to stay.
there are days the country feels
like a house with too many cracks,
where the rain seeps in
no matter how many basins
we place underneath.
we hang parols in december,
we paint the walls before fiestas,
we invite guests
as if nothing is collapsing quietly
behind the kitchen door.
maybe this is our tragedy—
this ability to endure
without spectacle.
like it’s just another bag
from the market.
beneath the noise,
beneath the careful silences,
to keep a nation breathing
through its own contradictions.
—truth, sometimes, arrives edited.
kaledo-art
dededos
origamiaround
annaxmalina
vaporwave
kianamaiart
discoholicmusic
