On problem

SUNSET. The sun, with its fiery orange color, sets over the horizon of Meycauayan Commercial Complex.

Most of the time, it

baffles him whether

he has problems or

he is the problem.

In reality,

he is a wild grass

growing all over

an unfamiliar

surface, whose guts tend

to make impulsive

decisions, putting

him in an awkward, 

bizarre position.

Almost always, he

acts without thinking,

letting his feelings

dictate his manner,

resulting in vast,

forest-like effects.

Just like a sequence

unwaveringly

circling on its own,

unwearying from

constantly running.

Whatever the case

may be, it is a

problematic one—

and he is aware.

That trait of his must

stop rather than

develop like the

flowers bloom on a

summer afternoon.

He is fully ware

of all the factors

encompassing the

processes of his

metamorphosis.

Yet, here he is in

awe, still a work

in progress, growing

his wings, awaiting

to fly against the

blowing of the wind.

Is he witting or

only posturing?

Does he have problems?

Is he the problem?