Refugee

By Keziah Patrice Jocson

In case you'd gone insane, And could no longer mask your pain— As if you lived to die in vain, Runaway with me in this pouring rain.

If flying seems like falling, And you chose to cease dreaming; If the voices wouldn't stop screaming, Would it be fun if you'd reached the ending?

If all your angels drove you crazy, And only your demons could hear your plea— If you'd like to drown yourself in the sea, Would you do it with me?

If you wouldn't know where to stand, And things would get out of hand; If it is your head you couldn't withstand, Would you like to sink in the sand?

If you'd see rainbows as ropes in trees, And you would no longer feel the breeze If you'd hate days like these, Would you just let yourself fall on your knees?

If you no longer want to see my face, And you'd hate being on the chase; If you'd like to leave this place, Would you like me to pack you a case?

I wouldn't turn away nor act blind, Even if you couldn't hear me if I whined.

You're still my hero, even though you're hard to find. You're still my hero, even though you lost your mind.

Spring in November

By Shaira Iwayan

Last November, if my memory serves me right, The house used to be loud and merry. Youthful faces roamed the halls, Amid autumn, resembled spring on a daily.

Until—

Last November, from wee hours 'til dawn, A mix of nightshade and gloom. Clouds were eerily darker, Cries filled the empty room.

About

Last November, in the season of fall: Her eyes void of life, her lips dry. From years of escape and feigning mirth, Now spring has passed bid her goodbye.

Exactly—

Last November, on the same day as grief, From branches weary and frail, Leaves of passing fall on her tomb, Buried under grounds solemn and stale.

Rebirth

By Shoppy Lynn Condemilicor

Foreword

We are eternally bounded to the past. Like a ripple, it shapes our now and even our hereafter. Whether it may hold the brightest supernova of our hearts or the loneliest comets of our eyes, somehow, we find ourselves lost in its vivid universe.

But to be lost is to be found — in the flow of the void, in the tick of the clock. For centuries, people have found their own path to expression. And creatives, like you and like me, chose to scream back at what lurks at the back of our mind, at the back of our being.

Perhaps, the world is in retrograde and—

We are eternally bounded to the past.

Copyright © 2023

Booked

Volume 12

LXXXI

Literary Folio of Tolentine Star, the official student publication of University of Negros Occidental-Recoletos

All rights reserved. No part of this folio may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Editor-in-Chief. Published by the students, faculty, and alumni of the University of Negros Occidental - Recoletos at Impress Quality Printing, Talisay City, Negros Occidental.

Literary Folio Editor

Alea Jen Villahermosa

Theme Contributor

Shoppy Lynn Condemilicor

Cover Artist

Kristoffer Flores

Editor-in-Chief

Carla Joanne Robles