soft grumbles

I see you being handled
by your torturers again.

Men and women in white robes
poking every inch of your body

listening, probing, searching,
invading even your soul.

Manacled with chains
of rubber hoses

steady drip of sugar
in your veins

your bed, solitary confinement
for having done something wrong

your room, your prison cell
from which there is no parole

I watch in horror
as your torturers handle you

for in a few more years
it might be my fate, too.

rolly

Everything that surrounds me
are very familiar.
Like I never went away.

The fresheness of cloth
on every pillow,
aroma of grounded coffee beans
being brewed on the pot

sizzle of eggs
and bacon fried
on a non-stick pan.
Hearing my mother
give orders
to the househelp

faint thuds on the pavement
ocassional clang of the hoop
as my brother plays
basketball awaiting
my mother's call,
that breakfast is served.

My father on his favorite chair
reading the news, with pen
on his side, ready for today's
crossword puzzle.

And that cabinet
full of medals and trophies.
Best Debater, Best Orator,
Champion on the Math Quiz,
Spelling Bee...

All for nothing

for I have not chosen well.
What have I earned?
Black-eye, bruises and a
broken heart.

How I wish I never left.