tw // blood , gore , rape , suicide , death
Fear not the children roaming in the streets,
Their small, dirty fingers pressing on the pristine windows of your Ford Ranger FX4,
Begging for a 1-peso coin that might not even fill their stomachs,
Their eyes coated with the indifference that a bright future will never come.
Fear not the man wasting away on a run-down factory somewhere in Bacolod,
Waiting for the day he stops living from paycheck to paycheck.
His fridge is empty and the bills are piling high,
So he closes his eyes, smiles, and
Fear not the woman who’s a student activist,
Whose throat becomes hoarse from demanding to end Indigenous killings.
One day she witnessed a soldier dragging a B'laan by the hair to the barracks.
She runs to the nearest police station.
By dusk, she is found floating in the river with her tongue cut and her eyes gouged out.
Fear not the old trycicle driver who asks for 10-pesos more than the normal fare.
He only wants to help her sick daughter dying of cancer.
You shout and refuse to pay for what you think is justice.
The next day, his family has reserved a lot in the cemetary.
Instead, fear the policemen stomping away on the cold concretes of the night,
Armed with a weathered gun half-tucked in their belts,
Making their rounds across the barrio as if they’re dedicated to duty,
And waiting for the next teenage girl to come out of the safety of her home,
To drag her under horrors of the night.
Fear the politicians with promises of “helping” the poor,
They eat up all your support and flush it down the toilet after.
I heard they buy their smiles from the plastic surgeon down the street.
They will never help you, don’t count on that.
They count gold instead of responsibilities.
Fear the judge, the jury, and the lawyer of the courtroom,
You never know if their justice is tainted with the whisper of gold.
You plead for your innocence, knowing the guards planted the gun and the sachet of powder under your blanket.
But your Christian lawyer will plead you guilty as if he’s never heard of God.
Fear the rich who preach their sin-free lifestyle like they’re the descended angels of social media.
The know the wine that they’re drinking comes from a winery that enslaves their grape farmers.
But they post about it and say, “How delicious! I’ll buy another bottle.”
Their son also rapes and murders women like they’re mere toys, but his parents say,
“Who would be interested in that?”
Who do we fear? Who don’t we fear?
Everything becomes crystal clear,
When you ask their thoughts and hear,
“With power comes great responsibility”.
What do they focus on: the power or the responsibility?
To read more of my poems, short stories, and prompts, you can visit my blog on Wordpress at: