We aren't as sweet as chocolate
nor as quiet as the breeze.
Even our mouth does not utter words
of love, gratitude and sorry.
Often times, we're busy
with our everyday arguments
of her endless scoldings
and my stubborness.
But I am grateful still
from the meal she cooked,
the worriness in her anger,
the soundless applause,
and her sacrifices
as a mother.
We might never speak of love
but we find home
in each other's loudness.
To my mom.
BINABASA MO ANG
For you, My home
PoetryThis is a collection of proses for the people I've met and shared my memories with, and for you who've been having a hard time finding this so called home.
