poem, Poetry

You Should Be Proud of Me

You should be proud of me
Because I’ve stopped self-harming.
I’ve thrown away the blade, see?
No more emo days of wrist cutting.

You should be proud of me because I’m normal now.
C’mon! Don’t give me that sarcastic “Wow!”
Here, let me show you my tattoo.
Pretty neat, right? This is a sign of self-healing bro!
Let me tell you how
Every single needle pierced through my skin,
Like a battering ram, breaking through the tissues allowing ink to spill in,
And how my body tried to regurgitate the foreign subtance
That was forcibly painted while the needles tap danced,
To the buzzing sound of the machine.
Like I said, my body tried to spew the ink out
By vomitting blood and how it made me react
By sending signals to my brain that my entire forearm stings,
But I didn’t want to step away from the act
Of getting inked because physical pain
Provided an escape from the rattlings of my brain.

You should be proud of me because I’ve limited drinking.
Limited it to the times that I no longer have money
Because I always end up overspending
My solitary nights with “ocassional” binge drinking.
But that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to the dew
That forms around a beer bottle, making it sparkle and glisten, adds flavor to its hue,
Like a sweating woman with accented curves,
It makes your heart go “ba-dump!” and sends a thrill down your nerves.
But don’t worry, I don’t drink that much anymore.
But let me tell you, last night, I downed more than four.

You should be proud of me because I’m eating properly.
Can’t you see the changes on my body?
You wanna know my secret? Here, let me share:
I eat to fill the emptiness that I couldn’t bear.
I eat when I’m gloomy, I eat when I’m mad.
I eat when I’m stressed and I eat when I’m sad.
I eat ’til my stomach hurts because only then I’ll be full,
Only to regret it the next day because I’m bloated
And I’m constipated,
And I feel like a fool.
When I’m feeling too bloated, I then starve myself.
Letting my gut juices eat away at the food that’s inside it.
Allowing it to melt last night’s dinner,
While I curl like a ball in a corner,
Feeling every fizzle and bubble,
I silently suffer,
While the acid chips out pieces of my stomach, sculpting an ulcer.

See? I told you, you should be proud of me.
I am now okay and I am now happy.
Now there’s no need to fret and there’s no need to worry,
Because I’ve been through the worst, right? And now is the time to be joyful and giddy!
And that’s what I’m doing, that’s why you should be proud of me.

You… Should… Be proud of me.

poem, Poetry, reality

If I Could Create My Own World

If I could create my own world,
It would be one without vanity.
It would be one where people are free
To live their life however they want it to be.
It would be a place filled with love and unity.
A world where people understand that life isn’t about the word “me.”

If I could create my own world,
It wouldn’t simply just be
About struggling to survive and putting food in your belly.
We would be more than just butchers,
And Mother Nature abusers,
Because we understand that the very rock we live in,
This place that many would call rotten,
Is a part of our household because it is a member of our family.

If I could create my own world,
It would be one of creativity.
It would be a realm where people could express who they are
And let out their personal kind of crazy.
Everyone’s inner light would shine brighter than any star
And every single person is helping
Others who are healing,
And aid them stitch-up those self-inflected scars.
It would be reality where there would be no bullies.
A dimension where depression isn’t considered a pretense,
But is instead met with love, understanding and support from loved ones and friends.

If I could create my own world,
It would be a place where no one has to hide,
Their repressed emotions because we’d listen to their cries
And take the noose off their necks and best the shit out of suicide.
It would be a land where diplomacy reigns supreme,
Preventing countries from whipping out their guns and bombs,
Their nuclear warheads would calm down and stop them from being dumb,
Which would’ve lead to unspeakable acts of extreme
Violence and war, filling the world with innocent screams.

But I can not create my own world.
I can simply write and dream.
Put pen into motion and let my thoughts flow like a stream
And hope this would reach the hearts of those who are listening.
Those whose ears are not deafened by the chaos,
Those whose eyes are not blinded by pathos,
Those whose lips are not sealed by conformity
And those whose minds are not closed to the possibility,
That maybe we can create our own world and reality.
Maybe we can make one where we are all a family.

Cebu, death, Depression, Giving Up, poem, Poetry, sadness, suicide

Flight of the Wingless Avian

I saw a wingless avian take flight for the first time.
I saw her jump from the open window that sang to her sweet melodies of freedom.
I saw her pale feet touch the icy ledges of the 7th floor concrete building, before she crossed the line.
The line between flying and falling.
The line between living and dying.
The blurry line between giving up and dragging your feet, trying desperately to hold on.

I saw her featherless skin that was colored with white chalk and sprinkled with snow.
She glistened like a diamond on that rainy afternoon, but she was a fading flame, slowly losing its glow.
She gently looked up towards the grey and gloomy sky,
She whispered sweet nothings to it, as if it was her lover and I,
Was mesmerized by the beauty of her essence that unfolded right before my eye.
She was clearly broken and the scars and bruises were the cracks she tried to hide.
She was obviously troubled by the voices that filled her head.
The voices that kept tormenting her at night, while she laid down in bed.
Her eyes were broken windows to her shattered soul.
They were dull and lifeless, making her look like a product of a twisted fate that is oh so cruel.
She was gorgeous, but life had her looking like a ghoul
and yet, if she was indeed undead,
Then she was the most dazzling zombie character I’ve ever seen, or read.

Yes, she was messed up and nobody understood, but she was gorgeous to me
And if only I had tried to appoach her,
If only I had exchanged sounds like “Hi” or “How are you doing?” with her,
If only I had taken the time
To listen as she pours the limitless volume of grime
That has filled her Hydriai with mossy backwater,
Then there could’ve been a chance that maybe,
I could’ve broken her fall, catch her and prevented this tragedy.

But… I didn’t.
No, I most certainly didn’t.
I just watched her spread her arms, bend her knees and jump.
As I watched in slow motion I could hear my heart pump
And I could see her slash through the tiny droplets of rain.
I could see her gliding through the air, like a rain-soaked dove
And I could see her eyes were closed, content as if she had found her one true love,
And she was smiling. A smile that told me she has finally found peace from all the pain.
That’s it! That was exactly it!
She was flying her pain away.
All the hurt and misery that made her decide not to stay.
She eventually came into contact with the cold, wet and unforgiving pavement,
And now crimson was the color that filled the street’s waterdrains and asphalted cement.

I saw a wingless bird take flight for the first time
And I knew that what I saw will forever haunt my mind.
Her pale feet and featherless skin that has been colored with white chalk and sprinkled with snow,
Her eyes which were windows to her broken and shattered soul
And the mangled shell that once contained her ghost,
Were now swallowed by a wave of bystanders, pedestrians, cops and fools.
They gawk at the ghastly site and take pictures for their FB post,
While she slowly fades and drowns into the blackness of their shadows.

Emma Stone, poem, Poetry

Olive Penderghast

Eyes of monolid, iris of jade,
My first encounter was at school and saw the zombies invade.
Met you again and broke my heart in the distant La La Land,
As you walked away from the bar with another man’s hand.

Saw you on the street with Peter Parker the other day.
The next day you played tennis and smoked the men away.
One wouldn’t need eyes to see your beauty.
No need to dig deep to discover your artistry.
Everything about you is a lovely poetry.

Blogging, New Year

See You Later, Alligator!


I have always loved the idiomatic expression “See you later, alligator!” I love it due to its playful and childish nature. I love it because I personally hate goodbyes and it makes the word “Farewell” more bearable, as if I was simply playing a game of hide-and-seek with the people, pets and memories that I needed to let go. All of them were treasures to me, but just like any scurvy mate washing the moldy wooden floors on a ship that’s filled pirates, I too had to let my treasures go. I had to let them be free from my grasp and be reclaimed by the sea, so they can be brought to where they’re supposed to be.

2017 hasn’t been the kindest year to me. In fact, it has been one of the harshest years that I had ever encountered in my 25 years of existence. 2017 was a barren wasteland, devoid of life and vegetation. No matter where you looked, all you could see were colossal sand dunes stretching for miles and miles. You’d encounter dead carcasses and the bleached remains of the inhabitants that struggled to survive in this place. Inhabitants who had no other choice but to succumb to their slow, agonizing and ruthless end. When I travelled these desolate plains I had three of the best companions with me: Lazy, Green and Dusty. They brought life in this wretched desert and made my days worth living. They became one of the reasons why I wanted to get out of bed and be greeted by their incessant licking and wagging tails. I would’ve wanted for them to stay, but life had other plans and when the time came, they were claimed by the scorched Earth that we treaded upon. I saw each of them perish, one by one, and on each occasion, my eyes never dried up. It just kept pouring and pouring, to the point that it had gotten so swollen and red, one may have thought I had a stink eye.

But the sea of dusts wasn’t the only dimension I had to travel this year. I also had to travel the underworld as well. The abyss, the void, the pit. Yes, I was there and I had traversed those lightless chasms, aimlessly crawling in the dark, flailing my arms left and right, trying to find the path that would lead me to the light. I got stuck there for a while, long enough for its residents to have befriended me. Long enough for its residents to engrave their dark whispers to my soul. Long enough for them to fornicate with my already fucked up mind and violently hump my thoughts until they fill it with their corrupted seeds of negativity. Long enough for them to convince me to once again unzip my skin, making new scars and reopening old ones, making me bleed once again and forcing me to watch the ebb and flow of the crimson life that was gushing out of my wrist and forearm. Long enough to make me once again attempt to carve my own tombstone and dig my own grave. This all happened on April and that is why I consider that month my death because although I survived, something inside of me definitely died.

But April wasn’t the only issue because I had to experience the pain of being sundered as well. My Queen, who I faithfully served for 6 years and 10 months, found another knight to whom she decided that was going to be her king. I don’t blame her though because I wasn’t a good knight. I messed up a lot of times and I was the one who disavowed myself from her, making her find someone new. But that isn’t even the end of it because this was also the year when the medicine men and women discovered a curse that was living deep within my lungs. This was also the year where I drowned in alcohol again, trying to soothe my woes and emptying my pockets just to get a sip of that bitter nectar. This year was a mess and it did indeed left me in a mess…


With all the bad things that happened, this was also a good year.

This was the year poetry boomed and I was able to meet new people. People who had similar interests with me and who shared my passion about poetry. This was the year when I was able to co-found a collective of poets, some would call us a poetry group, and where my feet was able to stand on different stages performing all my of pieces, giving a fraction of myself to the many audiences that listened. This was the year when I was introduced to the music scene here in Cebu and my God is it wonderful. I’ve met talented musicians, made friends with some of them and got to hangout with a few of them. This was the year when I was able to reconnect with God, blessing me with a prayer book that was calling out to me on the bookshop shelves. I opened it up, went to see the dedications section and saw only two words there: For IAN. I got teary-eyed because after all the battles I’ve faced and after all the knee-deep feces that my battered being had to trudge through, God was still there for me and the prayer book was the biggest proof of that. This was also the year that I got to know myself better. I got to know what made me tick, what made me think the way I think, what made me feel the way I feel and a bunch of other stuff. I was able to finally enter the garden of my psyche and take a look at the many flowers that represented each of my emotions and allowing myself to feel them, acknowledge them and let them go. This was the first time that I wasn’t repressing any of them. The first time I wasn’t judging them and it felt so liberating to finally understand that YES – it is okay to be emotional and it is okay to be weak.

2017 was definitely my journey through Hell. 2017 were the scars, bruises and diseases of my body. 2017 was the death of a part of me, something that I could never again revive. 2017 was the time when I had lost myself and was gobbled up by oblivion, trapped between its sharp teeth and swallowed whole.

But 2017 was also my hopes and dreams come true. 2017 were all of the amazing people I have met throughout my journey. 2017 was the year when I indulged myself in art, music and poetry, showing a side of me that I’ve neglected all the while. 2017 was the acceptance of myself and the time where I allowed my emotions to flow, not repress them and store them up in a bottle. Most importantly, 2017 was my reunion with God, the Almighty Creator.

I do not wish for 2018 to be kinder. I do not wish for it to be more mellow, or sugar-coated. I just wish for it to help me grow in wisdom and in heart. I wish for it to help me become the best possible version of myself.

Happy New Year, ladies and gentlemen. Give yourselves a pat in the back and a toast because we made it through another year.

Halloween, horror themed poetry, poem, Poetry, scary poem

This is Just a Poem

This, is just a poem.
It is not the thing that keeps you up at night.
It is not the sounds you hear when you turn off the light.
It is not the bumps on the floor
Or the knocks on your door
That startles you and make you sweat in fright.

No, this, is just a poem.
It is not the one causing those footsteps you hear
Even though you’re home alone.
It is not the silhouette in your bathroom
That floats carelessly out of sight.
Appearing and vanishing faster than you can look from left to right.
It is not the intense feeling of someone standing behind you.
Hearing and feeling someone breathing on your neck,
You shake the feeling off by keeping your thoughts in check,
But that feeling of anxiety is bubbling up your gut.
Dread and curiosity makes you want to turn around but,
What if something is there to make your fears come true?

See, this, is just a poem.
It is not the shadow that you could see from the corner of your eye,
Reaching out and getting closer as the seconds pass by,
While this piece invades the screen of your phone.
It is not the whispers that fall into your ear
As you hide under the covers and cower in fear,
Wishing that the man standing at the edge of your bed
Looked alive and healthy, not pale and dead.
It is not the woman who has made a home of your ceiling.
The woman with hollow eyesockets and is always weeping,
Who sometimes charges at you while frantically screaming.

It is not the terror that makes you huff and puff.
The terror that makes your legs ache from the tough
Motion of putting one foot in front of the other,
As you run away from your bloodthirsty pursuer.
It is not the goosebumps that you get,
After getting struck with the feeling
That something from somewhere is staring
At you and I bet,
You’re feeling it now, as your pores begin to sweat.

But don’t worry because this is just a poem.
It is not the countless eyes that are now popping out the walls.
It is not the shrieks you just heard from the empty halls
And it is most certainly not the banging
That is coming from your closet.
It is not the sound of tapping
From your window as the hands try to open it.
It is definitely not the one standing next to you in the mirror.
The blood-stained face that will visit your dreams,
Turning it into a nightmare filled with darkness and horror,
As it wraps you in its arms, relishing in your screams.

But after you’re done with this, you’d probably be relieved.
Saying “none of this true” that’s what you’d probably believe.
So you’d probably invite the dark, instead of leaving the lights on
And then you’d instantly wonder “Am I truly here alone?”
You’re probably right, it’s just you and your white phone.
You don’t have to worry about me, for this is just a poem.