She is a scripture of broken promises and shattered dreams. Every step felt like walking on mysteries and every breath felt like drinking secrets.

She is a mess from another mess of a family. Every moment was another sad memory and every single remembrance was already a forgotten dream.

She is a painting covered in ink. Her colors have turned black and her lines have been smeared. She is a canvas no longer wanted because of a stain she cannot remove.

And so I tell her, look up. Stop stepping on mysteries. Stop living on sad memories. Stop letting your colors fade. Become as vibrant as your soul and become a masterpiece painted by yourself.

Do not throw yourselves to the bottom of the pit because of people who want to use you only as a stepping stone. Do not bring yourselves down because of flaws you are taught to hate because those flaws are what make you different. Those flaws are what make you beautiful and those flaws are what make you see the beauty in yourself. Do not hate others because of things you do not accept and do not turn from those who need help.

You are a scripture of promises and dreams and that very thing is the reason of your existence. To love and be loved by others but more especially to be loved by yourself. Understad that the hardships you have gone through are the lessons you will remember. You are allowed an infinite number of chances to turn things around, but remember to make every chance matter.

Remember to give people your heart and remember to give yourself patience. Patience to grow and patience to love. Patience to learn and patience to accept.

Learn to live how you want to live, because your life is a story that you write with your hands. Do not let others write your story for you. Write your story with your own words, sentences, paragraphs, memories, remembrances, dreams, promises, and with your very being.

Write with your hands; write with your soul.

I got used to your morning texts. Maybe that's what made waking up quite difficult. I had to wake up every morning wondering why I had to feel that hole in my chest. And trying to shrug it off by the coffee you didn't want me to drink.
I got used to your sweet messages. Maybe that's why receiving messages became difficult. I expect your name everytime my phone beeps and it's killing me to realize you don't probably have my phone number anymore. So I try pushing the thought away by messaging boys you never wanted me to talk to.
I go through the day trying to tear away my mind from you. Trying to fit myself to any other puzzle but the memory of the old you. I try so hard to keep myself busy but I still pause when I feel my heart clench because of the things that remind me of you.
I know what I want. I know I love you. No, the old you. I love how the old you loved me so hard it felt like I was on cloud nine. You loved me so much I didn't bother loving myself because you filled me up. So when you dropped, "wala na kong nararamdaman" I didn't know what else to do. It's just so... Difficult.

I would write a thousand poems in your name, but I will never capture your natural and unyielding beauty.
I would paint hundreds of portraits of you, but my pieces will never match a single smile you make.
I will walk a miles without caring whether I thirst or hunger, just so I can see your face, yet my body will give up before I reach you.
I would send you exotic and fragrant flowers as a homage to your loveliness, yet their fragrance will fade, they shall lose their color, and they will eventually wither and die.
I shall pray to God every single **** day until He smites me out of annoyance that I would be able to hold your hand even for just one second, but alas He still hasn't answered this one prayer.
I will do everything for you, and you know I would.
Yet you will not even notice me.

The surface of the water
Was rippled with a seemingly
Endless series of tiny waves
Like the goosebumps that
Elaborately covered
The flesh of your
Naked thighs.
The sound of the sea
Hungrily kissing the white sands of the shore.
The faint whispers of the wind...
The afternoon was pregnant
With poetry
But all the poetry it bore
Was pregnant of you
You
Of which there was no escape.

I want to write a novel about silence. The things people don’t say...

I feel like everything that has happened has led up to this.
The loving, the leaving, and the not-really living
Then loving, and living, and just living again.
You hurt me, I hurt you
Then we dance in vicious circles,
We, loveless, hopeless lovers..
You love me but you hate me.
I hate you but I love you
I s there no stopping
To the madness we've become?
Do we know the answer?
Do we want to know?

I lost a great innocence when I understood that I and my mind were not going to be on good terms for the rest of my life. I can’t tell you how tired I am of character-building experiences. But I treasure this part of me; whoever loves me loves me with this in it.

I want to emphasize the importance of surrounding yourself with people who genuinely care about you and feel proud to have exist.

“Did it hurt?” he asked me. “Falling in love.” He looked genuinely curious. His eyebrows were scrunched up like a little kid trying to figure out how to play a game.

I smiled and answered, “Falling in love didn’t hurt. Falling in love feels like falling to the softest mattress that ever exists. Falling in love is insanely sweet. It controls the way you think, the way you act, and it slowly consumes you to madness. And because of that we tend to forget what we are really falling for. “It’s not falling in love that hurts. It’s being in love. It’s being in love with an illusion of what you thought was true. It's being in love and realizing that you had fallen in love with tantalizing blue eyes that’s tangled up with cobwebs of lies. It’s being in love with someone you thought would never hurt you.”

Chapped lips
Dark circles
Boring days
Anxious nights
Dangerous habits and thoughts
Slipping back in my mind
How much longer
Do I have to do this?

She is a scripture of broken promises and shattered dreams. Every step felt like walking on mysteries and every breath felt like drinking secrets.

She is a mess from another mess of a family. Every moment was another sad memory and every single remembrance was already a forgotten dream.

She is a painting covered in ink. Her colors have turned black and her lines have been smeared. She is a canvas no longer wanted because of a stain she cannot remove.

And so I tell her, look up. Stop stepping on mysteries. Stop living on sad memories. Stop letting your colors fade. Become as vibrant as your soul and become a masterpiece painted by yourself.

Do not throw yourselves to the bottom of the pit because of people who want to use you only as a stepping stone. Do not bring yourselves down because of flaws you are taught to hate because those flaws are what make you different. Those flaws are what make you beautiful and those flaws are what make you see the beauty in yourself. Do not hate others because of things you do not accept and do not turn from those who need help.

You are a scripture of promises and dreams and that very thing is the reason of your existence. To love and be loved by others but more especially to be loved by yourself. Understad that the hardships you have gone through are the lessons you will remember. You are allowed an infinite number of chances to turn things around, but remember to make every chance matter.

Remember to give people your heart and remember to give yourself patience. Patience to grow and patience to love. Patience to learn and patience to accept.

Learn to live how you want to live, because your life is a story that you write with your hands. Do not let others write your story for you. Write your story with your own words, sentences, paragraphs, memories, remembrances, dreams, promises, and with your very being.

Write with your hands; write with your soul.

Tonight, I will forget
And leave the memories
Of you
And all about you
On the shore.
I will let the waves
Wash every fragment
Of your smile
And smell
Because my love,
I want to see again
How the sun rises
Over the horizon.
I want to feel
How the sun touches
My cheeks.
I want to travel
The world
And marvel
At the beauty it holds.
I want to run
And feel alive again
On every splash
Of wind
On my face.
My love,
Though I cannot love less
Than I feel for you,
I must forget you.
I must leave you.
You have been
A handcuff,
I can no longer write.
You have been
A blindfold,
I can no longer see the light.
You have been
A shackle to my feet,
I cannot move on and be released.
Tonight, I will let
Myself be drowned
With tears of you
For the last time.
I will let
Myself be caged
Inside the cocoon
Of your painful memories
Because tomorrow,
I will fly.

Humans?
Yes.

Humanity?
NO.

I don't understand why we must do things in this world, why we must have friends and aspirations, hopes and dreams. Wouldn't it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?

I know deep inside, I am not the child my parents wanted.

I can tell by the way they look into my eyes, because theirs glaze over, and by the way they don't take anything I say too seriously.
I can tell by the way they ask me about my future, and when I say, "I'm not sure but," they lose interest in knowing.

I can tell when they read the newspaper and see all the successful honor students at my school, they sigh, because my name isn't printed in ink on the list.

I feel like when I talk, they don't really listen, because if they did, they would read between the lines and realize I wanted to **** myself a hundred times.

I feel like when I'm upset I can no longer show emotion, because my mother has called me lazy too many times, and my dad has shook his head once too many.

I feel like when I'm sitting on the couch when I get home from school, they are disgusted because I should be "doing something more productive". So I 'sometimes' feel like being comfortable in my own home anymore.

I feel like I have to hide away in my room, because when I'm around them we don't talk much anyways. (Except my Mom)

I feel like I'm just another tab on their bill, especially when all they talk about is how they're low on money and make it feel like it's my fault.

It's just, I think they wanted someone  more, someone better.
I think they wanted a smart kid, just like my brothers and sisters,with a great passion for life, who is nothing but happy, busy, talented, outgoing. They wanted someone who would for sure succeed more than they did in life, someone who could assure them assistance in their older years.

But  they  got  me,
the kid who has social anxieties,
the one who gets 'okay' grades,
the kid whose  sad  most of the time,
the kid who has depression,
the kid who has secretly attempted  suicide,
the kid whose just another kid,
not the kid whose  Nothing  like me...