"What is your greatest fear?" a teacher asked me.

"Darkness," I answered, and almost everyone in the classroom laughed.

"Why are you even afraid of the dark? You're not a kid anymore," one girl said aloud and the teacher told everyone to keep quiet.

I sit as my greatest fear is slowly trying to eat me.

It's not the kind of darkness they think it is. It isn't the darkness that consumes the light that I'm afraid of; it's the one that's in my mind. And they wouldn't know.

I'm afraid whenever that pitch black of nothingness is trying to get in my being. That darkness that makes everything go upside down.

And why should I be afraid?

I'm scared that slowly, by time, I'm getting comfortable with it. I'm afraid that one day, seeing light wouldn't be an option anymore. I'm afraid that one day, darkness will completely consume me.

But it doesn't matter anyway. You already gave your laugh.

---Thalia Bautista; darkness

Here's to the writers—

You have the power to paint words
Into beautiful art—
To be able to touch a soul—
To touch one's heart

You can make the stormy sky blue—
Stop the waves from crashing to the shore
You can make all the withered flowers bloom—
Turn winter into summer, a glimpse of gold

You can make someone's dark day colorful—
Gather hope to put in between your words
Make them feel that they are understood—
That they aren't alone in this cruel world

You can mend someone's broken heart—
Put love in between your lines
Let them know that they are enough—
That being hurt is just a part of life

Yes—
We can make a whole new perspective—
We can create a world of our own
And no, we don't speak only for ourselves—
But also for all the lost souls

—Thalia Bautista; Just keep writing

The train pulled into the station
It was the beginning years
The days were not my own
Her, yanking my arm as we boarded
Me, following unsteadily down the row
Hers, the only seat available
Something to be shared
Something to be taken
The sounds of the engine and passengers
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination unknown

The train pulled into the station
It was the young years
The days were meant to be savored
Me, ravenous for freedom
Her, a haunting presence
Something to avoid
Something to push to the future
My seat by the window, roomy with possibilities
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination are mine

The train pulled into the station
It was the middle years
The days were lived for others
Me, dragging myself aboard
Her, a presence in a crowded aisle
Something to hide from
Something to question
The window frosted over, hiding the passage of time
My purpose and destination traded away

The train pulls into the station
It is the golden years
The days and story my own to reclaim
Me, climbing aboard, prepared and vigilant
Her, diminished but unforgotten
My seat fully my own
Some stories to be shared
Some spirit to be rekindled
The sunset out the window, guiding the autumn of my life
My purposes and destination lighting the open road ahead

What mountains have you climbed
What valleys have you fallen into
How many hearts have you broken
How many lies have you told
How many days have been wasted
How many sorrows have been shared
How many promises have been made
How many strangers did you love

What mountains have you climbed
What valleys have you fallen into
How many deserts have you roamed
How many times have you been lost
How many friends can you count on
How many enemies still fear you
How many lines need to be written
—to finish this song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)

I felt this primal urge
This trance-like instinct
To set things right
In case I have to leave
Move on, so to speak

So
I took my jaundiced eye
And rolled it from corner to corner
Of this, my situation
And I felt so very small and hard
Lost in largeness
For cynicism is a tight thing
Which allows little movement
A strange kind of chastity

And then, you see
Changes
Honesty demanded that I see more
Grow, so to speak

And oh, my poor sore eyes
See how the children starve
All over this bitter world
This bitter, sickened world
And cynicism did this
Through the slack hands of millions
Who still refuse to believe
That things can be changed

                                    By Phil Roberts