I stopped writing.
Not because I fell out of love with it...
My emotions just seemed to disappear.
I started a new medication.
The doctor said it would help my panic disorder, and it did.
I took that pill, like my mother talks to God (every morning).
When I went back to the doctor she said we had to up the dosage because apparently having 2 panic attacks a week still isn't okay.
I told her that when I woke up this morning I got out of bed without crying, but she didn't consider that as much of a victory as I did.
When I was put on a higher dosage, my emotions shut down.
After a few weeks I stopped crying, my OCD got better, my panic attacks were gone, and I could even go into the student union of my college campus without my heart trying to win a race against my thoughts.
I could breathe.
But, I also stopped having fun.
I felt like a stranger in my own body.
My emotions found the exit on the plane and jumped, never to be found again.
Since when did being able to breathe require me to feel like this?
Natuyo na ang kaalatang pumapalibot sa kanyang mga mata
Ilang papel na ang nasira sa pagtulo ng mga basang kalungkutan sa mga salitang pinagsikapang idikta't ibuga
Umaasang, balang araw
Ang sakit na kinikimkim ay tuluyan ding
Lumipas ang mga buwan, humina ang katawan
Nagkulong sa loob ng sariling kasakiman't kadiliman sa takot na muling masaktan.
Pero tama na.
Sa wakas, dumating na ang realisasyong matagal nang inaasahan: Nakakasawa nang magtiis matulog sa mga basang unan.
Panahon na para ito’y labhan.
I've been trying to write more poems in my native tongue. Lately, I've been falling in love with its rythmic flow. I hope that the people who got so used to my english poems can appreciate this new direction.
As a writer
I dredge up the problems I've buried so long ago
And mold them into stanzas
I trace the scars on this ungodly body
And etch them into my words
I let my tears fall on dull paper
And leave the salt water current to carry my pieces
As a writer
I am slowly learning that my dark times
Are also stories worth sharing
my process of writing/ process of moving forward
i spent my childhood
with a conch shell in hand,
i'd be near the sea
even on land
for when i'd press
it to my ear
i'd hear the ocean
loud and clear
and that's when i realised:
i could have the world in my hands
if i believed enough
i could get to distant lands
in the wind
and i hope
you find them and
know i wait
my first shape poetry here!
On those nights you feel lonely
Days you feel gloomy
When it feels like the universe
Is conspiring against you
(And, no, the universe isn't conspiring against you)
someone tell me this right now please
My grandmother longed to be like you
I miss my grandmothers retorts about everything. God bless her soul