Sie suchten nach: it was my fault, but i didn’t mean to (Englisch - Tagalog)

i didn’t mean to
wala niya gitoyo

i admit that it was my fault
sana bigyan mo ako ng second chance

its not your fault, it was my fault
hindi nito ang aking kasalanan

im tired to explain my side, so i accept that all of it was my fault
i 'm tired to explain my side, so i accept that all it was my fault.

im so tired explaining my side so i accept that all of it was my fault
i 'm so tired explaining my side so i accept that all it was my fault.

i'm tired to explain my side,so i accept that all of it was my fault
i'm tired to explain my side,so i accept that all of it was my fault

i'm tired of explaining my side, so i accept that all of it was my fault.
i'm tired of explaining my side, so i accept that all of it was my fault.

i wrote my explanation of what i did wrong and it was my fault in the company and the people who trusted me especially my boss sir rob valerio who was able to put a lot of trust in me. i admit that what i received from the human resource department was correct in writing that i received from the human resource department from when i ordered 2 people to come home first and deliver a colleague to work until the people in the chb project were doing something other than what i was alleged
ako po ay sumulat ng aking paliwanag sa mga nagawa kong mali at kasalanan sa kumpanya at sa mga taong nagtiwala sa akin lalong lalo na po sa butihin kong amo na si sir rob valerio na nakapa laki ng tiwala sa akin. inaamin ko po na tama ang mga nakasulat sa aking nte na natanggap ko mula sa human resource department mula sa pag utos ko sa 2 tao na umuwi muna at maghatid ng kasamahan sa trabaho hanggang sa pagpa gawa ng mga i.d's ng mga tao sa chb project maliban po sa isang ipinaparatang sa akin

a low art [excerpt from the penelopiad] by margaret atwood (canada) now that i’m dead i know everything. this is what i wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. i know only a few factoids that i didn’t know before. death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. since being dead — since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness —i’ve learned some things i would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening ot her people’s letters. you think you’d like to read minds? think again. down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words —words you’ve spoken, words you’ve heard, wo rds that have been said about you. some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. what a fool he made of me, some say. it was a specialty of his: making fools. he got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. he was always so plausible. many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. even i believed him, from time to time. i knew he was tricky and a liar, i just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. hadn’t i been faithful? hadn’t i waited, and waited, and waited, despite the temptation — almost the compulsion — to do otherwise? and what did i amount to, once the official version gained ground? an edifying legend. a stick used to beat other women with. why couldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as i had been? that was the line they took, the singers, the yarn- spinners. don’t follow my example, i want to scream in your ears — yes, yours! but when i try to scream, i sound like an owl. of course i had inklings, about his slipperiness, his wiliness, his foxiness, his — how can i put this? — his unscrupulousness, but i turned a blind eye. i kept my mouth shut; or if i opened it, i sang his praises. i didn’t contradict, i didn’t ask awkward questions, i didn’t dig deep. i wanted happy endings in those days, and happy endings are best achieved by keeping the right doors locked and going to sleep during the rampages. but after the main events were over and things had become less legendary, i realised how many people were laughing at me behind my back — how they were jeering, making jokes about me, jokes both clean and dirty; how they were turning me into a story, or into several stories, though not the kind of stories i’d prefer to hear about m yself. what can a woman do when scandalous gossip travels the world? if she defends herself she sounds guilty. so i waited some more. now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my t urn to do a little storymaking. i owe it to myself. i’ve had to work myself up to it: it’s a low art, tale-telling. old women go in for it, strolling beggars, blind singers, maidservants, children — folks with time on their hands. once, people would have laughed if i’d tried to play th e minstrel —there’s nothing more preposterous than an aristocrat fumbling around with the arts — but who cares about public opinion now? the opinion of the people down here: the opinions of shadows, of echoes. so i’ll spin a thread of my own.
isang mababang kwento ng sining sa tagalog