Hypnosis | Lit

Moment of being hypnotized. Long post. Don't take the title seriously. Have you ever felt that? Being hypnotized? But in a good way? Well, I think I am. I am feeling it right now, right at this moment. I'm being controlled and my destiny is also manipulated. Not that I'm saying I'm stupid enough to be manipulated by someone, but the fact that idiomatically speaking, you know you're in a "sphere" shaped ball and let it roll..

Happy Mothers' Day

Greetings Everyone! Today is a special day for all moms out there.
So, I'm gonna post a poetry for my mom.

At night, I pray to God and say,
Oh Good Lord, thank you for this day.
I even pray for my family
To always have smile so happily

But this time I thank you dear MOTHER
The sacrifices you give us, doesn't change our attitude into another
We would always cherish the moments you share
And we treasure them like something rare

We know we're sometimes mean and wayward
But still, that doesn't lead you into the feeling of awkward
We love you so much like a thousand percents
And today, we'll make your day with presents
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥...infinty love

Poetry: Amusing Or Refusing

"Amusing Or Refusing"
~ K. Roque

Why are some people born in a different attitude? An attitude that if I were to ask, is not applicable in this world, or correcting it, UNIVERSE. What I'm referring to are the "backstabbers". Stabbing you at the back (through words) which you didn't know. For their friends, it looks very amusing. But for me and my surroundings, it's like letting others refuse you in telling the truth. What if you have friends and loved ones who are backstabbers, do you think that life is so unfair for us, why did HE let this all happen in a sudden motion. Backstabbers think it's enjoying telling other stuffs behind the person's back. But for me, I'd say pride is over their heads.

Pat Mora, "Elena" (poetry journal)

I've read this on tumblr, amazed on how its done..

Pat Mora, “Elena”

My Spanish isn’t good enough
I remember how I’d smile
listening to my little ones
understanding every word they’d say,
their jokes, their songs, their plots
       Vamos a pedirle dulces a mama. Vamos. 
But that was in Mexico.
Now my children go to American high schools.
They speak English. At night they sit around
the kitchen table, laugh with one another.
I stand by the stove and feel dumb, alone.
I bought a book to learn English.
My husband frowned, drank more beer.
My oldest said, “Mama, he doesn’t want you
to be smarter than he is” I’m forty,
embarrassed at mispronouncing words,
embarrassed at the laughter of my children,
the grocery, the mailman. Sometimes I take
my English book and lock myself in the bathroom,
say the thick words softly,
for if I stop trying, I will be deaf
when my children need my help.