Who Was It?
In October of 2019, I fought against the waves of La Union on a morning not meant for someone like me Sheer lack of skill was undoubtedly clear, like the wide open sunroof above me You should have seen how those waves threw their punches As if Marquez-Pacquiao, raged on in the water seven years later, It had all the speed, and force, and constancy To put it on primetime nature The moving blue was a vengeful foe, and it had its eyes locked-in on a pretender, wearing a title belt around his ankle, the leash to the life buoy that was his surfboard Who was it, but me? Facedown on the sixth round, Muscles flaring, Tendrils of tendonitis shooting electricity to points of paralyzing, Barely able to catch a breath, Barely able to catch a wave, Just then another barrels down, Tossing him overboard and all he hear's the sound of a great washing machine whooshing, whirling and splashing throwing him in circles underneath the surface force-feeding him foam of saltwater detergen