Monthly Archives: November 2011


There was nothing but pure drama.

The sky was as black as ebony. It paints no scene of happiness. Staring at it is like falling to a bottomless pit. It was as deep as an abyss. And there one star shines. Alone.

I remember the nights when the sky was full of the stars’ flares – like scattered pieces of jack stones. Sprawled in that somber blanket are their little sparks, seeming to assure the moon they would be staying until the dawn breaks and until the sun completely defeats the dark. But that was those old cold nights, not tonight.

It’s like everybody is gone, even the stars. And I could feel the loneliness. I haven’t got a drenched cheeks but I could feel my throat was burning. It’s enough for me to believe that tears were about to shed.

I hate the feeling. Nostalgia crept. I remember how my father used to put me on his shoulders when my childish complaints of a tired foot would already annoy him. I suddenly missed my mom – the way she made me believe that falling stars would grant a fantasy. I wonder if my older sister also allows her children to play under the starless sky just how we used to do. And I asked if my grandma never broke her promise that she’ll be a star that would look after me when she finally reaches heavens.
My thoughts hang on the air. The cold wind caressed me. I felt I was lost and left behind.

There was the star – alone and shining. And there was me under the skies – lonely but not alone. I know all my stars are still there, perhaps concealed by the clouds and are too far to reach.

I can’t see them but I can feel them.



That day, the University’s Peace Park was flooded by red and black. The location of the infamous fountain became an abode of students shouting for justice. I was there. Overwhelmed with the number of students who responded to our invitation, I looked unto the faces – some where familiar, some were new.

Two years. Two years had passed when piteous people were massacred. What flashed on my mind were the graves, the dead bodies and the backhoe. I hoped the candles would somehow help.

I once again looked at the different faces. Then, I saw you.


You came wearing red, bringing the fight for the 58 who have been killed. In your heart you wanted justice. I saw you from afar calling and persuading the people to join the fight. A megaphone in the right hand. A camera on the other. You wanted to be a journalist – alive, not dead. You stand with the burning passions to spreading the truth and serving the people. You wished to dig the justice buried in the graves. You lit a candle. And you whisper your prayers in the air, neglecting the fact that you might not be heard. A silent tear fell.


I saw you lining up for the unity march. You stood behind me wearing white. You were pretty – the kind of face people would not usually see shouting on the streets. We started agitating. You started laughing. It was your first time, I heard you saying. And you enjoyed it. You were with the group of student activists but you know you never belonged. We continued shouting. You continued smiling. It was cute. The experience was. You know what we were fighting for but you never understand why we do. You lit a candle. And you asked a friend to take a photo of yours – for FB.


Written on the streamer was a call. Hustisya para sa mga biktima ng Maguindanao Massacre. You held the other end with a strong grip. Clutched in your other hand was a paper. You took glances to start off the bat-bat. You tried to shout the words out and pained your throat to speak the words even louder. Being in the frontline never embarrassed you. You had been used to attending rallies. You had been used to shouting the fight others would not even give a damn. You lit a candle, certainly not for the last time. You’ve got a heart willing to bleed for the plight of the people. You serve them at your own expense.


You watched us at the side of the streets. You were with your friends and I knew what your smirks meant. I could almost see you rolling your eyes. But I am certain you said the words. It stabbed me. “What’s the use of the rally?” Then you laughed as if were the dumbest persons you had ever met. I wanted to blurt out right in front of you the cause of what we were doing. I continued heading to where the road will lead – shouting and doing the thing you considered futile. You remained at the side of the road throwing a despising look to the queue of student activists. You never lit a candle. I hope you did. The candle melts but the fight wouldn’t.


I was taken aback with your voice. You turned away after speaking the lines. For a long time the words were trapped inside my head. “Those who support the most have the least to offer.”It had taken me a couple of seconds to finally have a grasp to those very words. I felt my throat was burning. My chest tightened. I never thought it would come from someone like you. You wore glasses but you still failed to see the essence of what we did. We support the most but we don’t have the least to offer. We have chosen to support because it’s the best thing we could offer. You never lit a candle. I hope you did. The light might have saved you from your clouding mind.


Like the hundred you’s, I lit a candle. I was thankful that many of the youths are still involved in the struggles for meeting social ends. Our voices were small. The candles’ light had already burnt out but the passion of some still is igniting. I hope it would last.

light in the dark

I lit a candle. I prayed for the souls of those who had died and of the justice that we had long sought for.

I lit a candle. I prayed for the people who haven’t heeded the time’s call.

I lit a candle. I prayed it would be the last time I’d be lighting a candle for those two reasons.


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        I am a poem… and you can never comprehend my entirety through a stereotypical perusal. You need to read between the lines.    

       Who am I?

Never did the best playwrights of time convey through their pieces the best answer to this million dollar question. And I guess no one ever would. But I would painstakingly try my best to do so. Here’s my piece…I am Mike Ariel Pastor Plaza (that’s according to NSO). How my parents thought of the name is something I don’t really give a damn. But what’s with the name, anyway? After all, Pacific Ocean, with a different name, would still be unfathomable. And I would still be me even if you mistakenly call me “Mark” and “Michael” just like what the majority of the populace commits.

I am my parents’ favorite son, simply because I am the only one. The always misunderstood who had always sought for attention. But that was before. I have already surpassed the days of being insecure with my sisters. Well, I’m too old for that. I now know they love me. The love they have for the three of us may have never been expressed in identical ways but I’m certain it’s equal. Corny but certain and it was never a late realization.

There are five things I could not live without: my left lens, my right lens, a phone, a pen and of course, my breath. I have spent most of my childhood years writing and reading but that doesn’t mean I’m boring. I am fond of playing with words and make a curl with every note. I hate wearing glasses but I have to. Screw James Patterson and Paolo Coelho, they made me a geek.

I love yellow. I love music. I love Math. Wait, did I just say that? I love eating especially when my emotions override my thoughts. I love laughing in the morning. I love crying in the night. I love when people think I’m shy because I am. Really. I am quiet when I’m in my lucid interval. I look serious most of the time but heaven knows I am not. I am happy. I am gay (any definition accepted).

I love my friends. They make me laugh at the top of my lungs. They best understand why I’m always blank and expressionless – the crazy individuals who know my frailty and remind me that I’m also crazy.

I certainly am not thrifty. I always have a hard time tracing back where I spent my pennies. I used to own a piggy bank when I was still a child. But when I broke that, inside was a five-centavo coin, a button and a chewing gum. How did those things get there was a result of being a blithe, stubborn child. Forgive me.

I am selfish especially with things I could not dare lose. Indeed, I am but nostalgic. I hate goodbyes. I find it hard to let go and detach myself from things I have already learned to keep. I hate alterations. I know I’m always cocooned inside memories. That makes me dramatic. Emotions are hard to conquer. Emotions are my weakness. I am always the fragile hearted who’s always teary-eyed to say goodbye.

I am not a nerd. I am not weird. I am unique just like anyone else.

Who am I?

I’m just a simple bit of earth formed human. That reminds me that there’s a HE who is responsible for making a ME. I was born out of love. I was born for love. That love would be enough for me to know what I am here for. That love would be enough for me to know who I am.

So while my parents pray for me not to fall in love. I am praying to find the reason why I am here and who I am.


       I am a poem written by Him for everyone to read. Between the lines.

       The truth is… I am His.