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Zie | 20 | MNL | She/Her | Sometimes I write stuff and put it here

[zie-writes]

Holy Women

Daughters of Mary Virgin Mother of God, Your mom Was pretty darn cool. Not because she was The Holy Mother, Or because she was chosen Out of all others, no.

You can see it, can't you?

In your heart that beats for not one But a nation, For the miles you would travel To fight a persecution — You are a splitting image of her.

You are a woman of compassion And love And purity And if anyone ever tells you That crowns were only made for kings Tell them to pray 40 Hail Mary's on a Wednesday So they can all hear About your mother's Coronation As Queen of Heaven and Earth.

Princess, You were born to rule.

Daughters of Anna, Quiet, gentle souls-- You are quite a cunning one, aren't you. All around you, You see Squabbling and arguments Debates and tempers flaring People who have learned too much of Getting what they want; Not enough Of the value of patience — But your mother has taught you well.

You have so much to share to the world — The world Is not yet ready.

So for now, You will wait.

Daughters of Bathsheba, Let them see you, Clearly Reveal to them the naked truth —

That you, Are a lot more than your body. That your strength Is in the power of your mind And in the eloquence of your ideas Free-flowing in a fountain of their doubt, Let them simmer In your brilliance, Because everyone knows That Solomon obviously Got his wisdom from his mother.

Wise girl, Don't ever let them push you To the background When you were made To be watched Center stage.

Daughters of Judith, You were born with a sparkling beauty No one could ignore. All your life, You have hidden Behind the jewels of tinkling laughter And blinding smiles —

I see you. And I see that you Were born a warrior With a sword that's bound in chains.

Do not let them dictate That a woman cannot fight back — You have more balls Than any of those men Trying to hold you back. Know that you may not hold a sword, But the battle is in your hands. Fight back, honey — Fight back and win.

Daughters of Eve, You are just like your mother.

You are not weak, Nor are you the only sinners The world has ever seen. You are curious — Bright, young woman, You dared to test the waters Adam would not touch.

Careless, they call you — Selfish. But their words cannot dim The brightness of your eyes;

Remember that while he was prepared To sit in silence, You had the courage To stand up.

Women.

Your mothers were the catalysts of change In a world who thought they were less.

Now their mass has ended — Go, and make your difference to the world.

— z.l.

(In honor of today’s Women’s March, this is for you, girls. Keep being amazing.)

[zie-writes]

Shout

Quiet girl. The world moves in chaos around you, Noisy, brash, electric, and you – You do not make a sound. You do not lift a hand, Nor a finger – Unmoving, Except in your gaze.

Wise girl, You are more aware of your surroundings Than you let others think. Your eyes, Telescopes, Looking far and wide Your ears, Beacons, Searching and listening – Surely, You can’t be happy With what you’re hearing.

Impatient girl, When you try to open your mouth, They are ready with the scissors, And you can already taste the blood Before the first word comes out – “NO.” Let those words come out, “NO.” Let your voice be heard, “NO.” You let yourself get drowned, Tongue cut off, Lips sealed shut.

Quiet girl.

You have been taught too long to be quiet You have forgotten how to make a sound.

Instead, You grow attached To the needle and the thread; To the numbing motions Of stitching cross marks on your ideas, Of sewing your mouth shut Tighter And Tighter –

Watcher.

Little girl, You have learned to become A mere watcher Of the abuse The hatred The madness That surrounds you. In the back of your mind, You are Still Screaming.

And still The only thing they hear, Is silence In the shouts of your pursed lips Sewn shut.

Stop Thinking that you are a damsel Whose voice has been stolen By the evil witch that is society That your protests Have been locked away Like some magical ingredient –

You are the only one stopping yourself From screaming injustice At the top of your lungs From objecting to ignorance And indifference You are the only one Who can make yourself heard.

So, Shout.

— z.l. (A little piece I have in-progress, in honor of World Poetry Day and the many voices that are waiting to be heard)

[zie-writes]

Newspaper Tragedy

I loved watching the news. Call me weird but I used to spend my summers Flipping through CNN and BBC, Stuck on the TV for hours Listening to reports of “Unarmed black man shot by the police!” “Thailand faces Human Rights’ charges,” and “ISIS bombs yet another country” My mind sharp, Focused, Heart sympathetic, #PrayFor BLANK.

I loved watching the news. Journalists speaking in formal tones, Reporting the wreckage behind them And it felt like watching The most sinister and heartbreaking show Television had to offer. Episodes, Showing the tears of families Struck by calamities A season Of reported dead Trailers, That snuck a view of the damage — I took it all in Like it was nothing more than a grain of salt. An interesting story to be told To your friends, Family - An unlikely tale of massive proportions.

I loved watching the news, Until I realized that it was reality. Until I realized, It was happening in my own country.

Suddenly The headlines weren’t so fun To look at anymore.

Suddenly It wasn’t like watching A thrilling horror flick Or an action series It didnt even feel like watching.

It felt Like Stab wounds, and Earthquakes And Silent screams It felt like a family being torn apart. A nation being torn apart.

And suddenly It wasn’t “just news” anymore It was Picking sides Lies after lies Questions that arise Brushed aside It was Red paint staining yellow brick roads Red not-paint staining our roads.

Now, the news seemed less like a fairytale And more like a tragedy Watching as all this terror Paints black our on-going history Seeps black through our flag screaming “Democracy!”

The news seemed like a documentary — A document-gone-awry?

Fake tabloids bleaching the minds Off of fact and reason, Forget fact and reason, In fact,

I don’t even know what “news” is anymore.

So let me tell you about When I loved watching the news, The way I would spend my summers Flipping through CNN and BBC Content, Complacent, Interested in all the stories They told me.

Let me tell you about When I loved watching the news. Because now, Now I just turn the TV off.

— z.l.

(For my country, whose pain I cannot bear to see. I’m sorry, for there is so little I can do.)

[zie-writes]

White

(for my platonic bestfriend)

You saw the world in an expanse of white Bright, unadulterated So astonishingly beautiful You wrote poems To cement it on paper.

When we were younger, You blinded me. Not because you were whiter than me (You still are) Nor because your bags were filled With mounds of white papers Blank, crumpled, Filled with the Nuevas Letras of your thoughts But because of your smile Stretched wide, The way you’d weave through crowds– I have never seen such passion In an eight-year old Who just wanted to say hello.

Back then, I admit I pushed you away because Your light looked too hot to be touched. It was only after that I realized My hands had not burned.

When we met again Nearly a decade later You were easier to look at Easier to befriend Easier to understand And I thought I had adjusted To your luminescent persona It was only after that I realized It wasn’t me who had adjusted.

Your expanse of white Was no longer so bright Nor unadulterated Dark red seeping through frayed edges.

I feared the day I figured out That white was now your hands Bleached with the effort To hide your stains And that white was the blankness Of an eternity You thought of welcoming everyday.

But somehow, (I am so proud of you) You learned to let go of the bleach. To grab hold of the pencil And decorate your stains With poems of love and wonder And whites.

And I hope that you’ll always remember The plain, white beauty Of an unadulterated world Because I fear what else fate will bring you To crumple your beliefs.

I fear that your blinding, white smiles Might get smaller and smaller each day Until all that is left is pursed lips Stained red, As yet again your compassion Pushes you to the back of the line. And I fear the white expanse of a canvas. And I fear the blankness in your eyes When they tell you “no” for the twenty seventh, Twenty eighth Twenty ninth Thirtieth time–

Because it’s funny How people these days Strive to mangle your humanity Into inhumanity And teach you that the world Is not black and white That there is no white left In this dark place you called home.

But remember that no matter how stained your canvas gets There will always be bits of white sprinkled in between. You shine far too brightly For even the darkest shades to cover up.

And I hope you remember That you are white. That you are bright, and unadulterated And that you Are astonishingly beautiful.

— z.l.

[zie-writes]

Victims

Everything is quiet. People have retired to their homes, and the night patrols have begun. All the lights have been shut off and the stars hidden behind the thick of the clouds. The entire city has been plunged into darkness. This is a dangerous time — the middle of war — and precautions must be made.

Small planes make their way through the sea of black, trying to find their target. They have been doing this every night — sending planes and helicopters and whatever airborne vehicles they can load with bombs. A pilot squints through the dark and activates his headlights to search for the city, his team following closely behind him.

The lights aren’t bright enough to clearly see the landscape below, but it is bright enough to be seen. Soldiers shuffle on the ground to secure their perimeters, and are sent out to inform the people. The sounds of rushed footsteps are heard as citizens scramble to reach safe houses and underground shelters. A cloud of panic arises as everyone waits — tense — for the sound of bombs.

When they hear it, it comes from a distance — far from the borders of their city. The sounds are loud and booming and oh so bright, but distant. Exhales of relief are heard as everyone waits for the silence of the night to return. Then, they hear planes fly off and back to their own country, and the people slowly trickle out into the streets. The citizens release hushed cries of joy and embrace one another, celebrating another night of survival in this time of massacres and violence. They retire to their homes, and sleep — for that night — is peaceful.

…

Nobody stops to think about what happened to the bombs. No minds fleet to what the pilots may have seen to set off the explosions. The overwhelming relief drowns out all forms of curiosity and stops the people from pondering on the consequences of their safety. No one questions where it had all landed.

In the distance, the sound of screaming pierces the air as fires and explosions rain on an unsuspecting village. The explosives falling from the sky drown out all other noise, and when the bombs stop, so do the screams.

Everything is quiet.

— z.l.

(Dedicated to the cities and families who mourn in silence, whose tragedies go unnoticed by the media and the rest of the world)

[zie-writes]

SMS: Social Media Suicide

We live in a world where every second counts.

In this world, All noise and broadcasting— Of daily joys and tears, Of website protests and pleas, Of online mourning for a person we never even knew whose Tumblr/Twitter/YoutubeWe’d found— There is a little girl.

She has no phone, No family to call her own, Not even a place to call home. Everyday she sits by a wallIn the same sidewalk, The same street With a flattened-out cardboard beneath her feet.

She looks at the world from below And sees: bowed heads, Rapidly-tapping fingertips— She wonders idly, If any of them even see her there. If any of them will notice her leaving.

Sometimes she’ll try to speak. Greet a stranger or two With a smile, a cheery hello—

Four times out of 10 someone responds. Four times out of 10 is a barely passing glance. The other two out of 10 won’t even gratify her with a response.

Sometimes she goes on a walk. She’d stop outside a television store, And see the reports of “15-year old female found dead in her room in apparent suicide” And hear of her “Social media accounts filled with hints of her depression” Always finishing with the hosts being “Sorry for her loss and she will be missed terribly.” She’d wonder if without Facebook, Without the posts going viral, The hosts would even care.

Everyday is almost the same, Little variations to set one apart from the other.

Some days she gets to eat, Some days she doesn’t, And some days she quells her hunger With a thirst for information.

She picks up a discarded paper Reads about the growing rate of kids and teens treading On the path to self-destruction Skims over the articles On when to allow your child to use gadgets And looks for herself In articles of poverty and hunger. Almost all speaking of providing help.

In her hunger-induced daze She thinks she missed the memo. She’s pretty sure Someone has yet to reach out to her.

(At the back of her mind she ponders Asking a stranger to film her Post it on facebook or youtube; She thinks she’s not above Begging for attention Anyways.)

On cold winter nights, she looks for a fire: A spark in a stranger’s eyes, A warmth in their smiles, A hearth in their kind words and actions—

Most of the time she stays cold.

She lays on her sidewalk And is lulled to sleep Harsh winds biting against her cheeks. In a world surrounded by the loudness of technology —

There is a little girl.

She has no phone, No family, No place to call home. She is seated by a wall in the sidewalk, Does not speak, A flattened-out cardboard beneath her feet—

She decides It’s time to say goodbye.

No one notices.

— z.l.