the past is supposed to be a lesson learned
not a prison to cage yourself so you could not fly
caged birds are equated to flightless birds or clipped wings
they had no freedom to soar high, their means of flying is limited
caging yourself in the past is not healthy
break the stigma now before it totally ruins you.
think twice.

praying to the savior daily. not post-traumatic stress disorder.

a very challenging story I got, I was diagnosed with PTSD. but I never saw it negatively, but rather, I focused on the good stuff, which is to save my soul and never resort to pills and other stuffs to make me feel better. if therapy was on the list, I'd check it, but it was expensive.

So, I thought to myself, why don't I buy a notebook? a ballpen? or a yellow paper? or something paper to write on.
so, I did. I even write at the back of the calendar sometimes. I write feelings in a piece of paper and read it many times, when I am in sync to the feelings, I could publish many poems in just a minute. let's say 5 to 10. I even created 500 poems to my perpetrator until I got nothing left to write. In those years, all I did was move on and immerse myself in the feeling. And then, when I compiled the poems I wrote, I burned them all. Arson thoughts made me felt better afterwards.

That was when my faith in God stood on solid ground, it made me save my life, my soul. I was kneeling to God, begging to him to come and take my pain. and he did. I even forgave them even when they did not ask for forgiveness. I want to protect my peace of mind, before I want to protect our friendship and ruined my mental health. but now, I learned the lesson, I learned to pray and pay the price for messing with my mental health.

but with God, I felt renewed.
so, PTSD stands for Praying to the Savior daily.
Address your problems to God, seek help. surrender it all to Him.
if no one wants to listen, God does.
Go to him directly. save yourself.
never let those inhibitions and thoughts bother you anymore, they do not deserve to live rent-free in our minds.

I cannot even talk to anyone because there will always come a day that I will be judged and talked
so, I always bring my trusted friend with me
my valiant notebook and ballpen
other people will say, "it was a waste of time and resources"
but for me, "it was a waste of life if you did not express yourself"
because who will listen to you anyway?
those weak people who bullies you thinks they are stronger than you, but no

I value my peace of mind, and I know my trusted friend will not judge me
if the pages were wrinkled because of my tears when writing
if the pages were torn because I got mad and has been throwing tantrums at someone

you know how scribbled my mind is, yet you just stood there and laughed at me
you know how troubled I am, but I still find a way to express myself organically
to tell you frankly, I cannot even hold a knife when thinking nasty thoughts to myself
killing myself is not an option, but saving myself is a choice

my hair was maybe sulking at me because when my hair grows back, I trim it whenever
I cannot even fathom holding a rope and coil it in my neck
I am afraid of heights, I cannot even jump from it
I am asthmatic so I never resorted to smoking
I just write, I got it as a hobby but later on it became a cry for help or self-expression.

there is another side you don't know...
been bullied since elementary until I finished college
since I am unemployed with a degree
I am still bullied and belittled.

how many more strands of my hair I am going to cut to comfort myself
just because I could not coil my neck with a tight rope
or just because I could not jump on top of the building
or drown myself in the water to forget my sorrows
or slit my throat or wrist
or drink alcohol till my kidneys give up
or smoke till my lungs cannot function anymore
or do drugs to stay high and make me insane

how many more poems am I going to write
just to be heard by those people who does not know how to listen
all they do is talk, assume
they do not know how to ask
it was as if they know everything
well, in fact they do not

they just see the highlights
the behind the scenes
not the point of view
you just saw the tip of the iceberg
not the one that lies beneath it

you only know the illness
but never the ill feelings behind it
you only know how to assume
not the sufferings I have been through

you only know when to blame when you did not like how I react
when I talk back, I was labelled as rude
but in fact, it was the tone that made me trigger and felt provoked
but you never watch what you say
you are never careful with your choice of words
you never know the pain I felt when you said that
I was born sensitive, gladly, because I know for a fact that I will never react the way you do

you only know the title of the song and the singer behind it
you only know the verse,
not the hidden meaning behind it.

how many more times am I going to comfort myself
just because my parents are emotional parasites
but emotionally unavailable
remind me why I hate parties? all the people there are not my friends
they fake it.
I am the pity celebrant being pitied
instead of the one celebrating her birthday

how many more times am I going to endure the pain?
I asked for help, did you know what I get in return?
criticisms. I did not ask for lectures but that was what I got in return
their lectures are reminders disguised as insults
they act supportive and concerned but their words never quite matched with their actions.

I reached out my hand because I fell in too deep,
in return, I got pushed deeper
they made me into a laughingstock
made me felt overweight or underweight
but in fact, my weight is not suitable to the liking of my BMI
I felt unheard, my ideas were rejected
I suggested something nice but in return I get a bad review saying I never use my brain well
so, when they asked me next time, I kept my mouth shut
I got the skills, but I am still unseen
what am I going to do with my life, then?
cry in silence, talk to the Lord, surrender it all to Him.

by the grace of God, I survived.
I endured it all for 25 years,
but I got a way out of it alive, surviving.
If you could see my back, it has been filled with invisible patches and band-aids
invisible stitches God always mends from harsh truths
but it made me learn that God removed you from the people who hurt you, do not crawl your way back in their arms anymore.

be wiser, be better.

Three years feel like the right time for me to finally say it: I want to marry this man. He has shown me, over and over, what love really means. He never lets me go to bed angry, because he values peace more than pride. He protects my heart, my peace, and my sanity as if they were treasures meant to be guarded with his life.

He buys my needs, not because I ask, but because he pays attention to me in ways no one else ever has. He provides me comfort and relaxation, reminding me that I deserve to rest, to be cared for, to be safe. With him, I don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. Sometimes we eat out, sometimes we travel, and in those moments, the world feels like it shrinks into just us two, laughing, sharing meals, building memories.

He gave me the world but keeps me on my toes. He leads me closer to God, and in his love, I have found peace, joy, and wholeness. He doesn’t just love me—he makes me grow, makes me dream, makes me believe that forever is possible.

In the first year of our relationship, we spent time figuring out what we truly meant to each other. We fought—not as enemies, but as two people learning how to love deeply, how to navigate differences, how to build a bond strong enough to withstand life’s tests. I did not see our arguments as battles to win, but as opportunities to strengthen our connection.

You showed me the scars of your past—the stories that still haunt you, the traumas you thought would scare me away. You revealed your vulnerabilities, believing I might laugh or run from you. But I didn’t. Instead, I drew stars around your scars, crowned them with care, praised your courage, and comforted you. I held your pain as if it were my own, because loving you means embracing every piece of who you are, even the parts that once felt broken.

In the second year of our relationship, we ventured into our first business together. We figured out how to balance our dreams and our partnership, how to navigate challenges side by side. But with that visibility came people’s comments. Many were harsh, judgmental, and full of negativity aimed at you. Of course, it hurt me, because I love you fiercely and I cannot bear to hear anything said against you. But in that moment, I realized something important: my respect for those who lack respect for you disappeared completely. I saw who truly matters, and who does not, and I chose to protect our bond, letting go of those who sought to harm us with their words.

And in the third year of our relationship, everything crystallized for me. Seeing how far we had come, how we had grown together, how we had faced challenges, celebrated victories, and loved each other through it all—it made me realize without a doubt that we should get married. It was not a sudden thought, but a natural conclusion to the journey we had walked side by side.

So now, after three years, after laughter and tears, arguments and forgiveness, revelations and acceptance, and challenges faced together in love, life, and business, I can say it with certainty and without hesitation: I want to marry this man. Because with him, I have found not only love, but home—a place where my heart feels safe, my soul feels seen, and my life feels full.

Betrayal is a strange kind of wound. It never comes from the blade of a stranger—it comes from the hand you once held, the voice you once trusted, the presence you once leaned on. It is not the enemy that ruins you. It is the friend who knew your secrets. It is the family member who knew your weakness. It is the lover who knew your heart. And because betrayal always comes from within your circle, the sting is sharper, the scar deeper, and the healing slower. That is why I say: before you do me *****, make sure you never need me again. Because there will come a day when pride runs dry, when excuses wear thin, when the world closes its doors on you and you remember the one person who stood by you in silence, in patience, in loyalty. And when that day comes, you will find that you have burned the very bridge that once led you back to safety.

You think betrayal is just an action—it is not. It is a declaration. It says: I don’t value you enough to protect you. I don’t honor what we had enough to keep it safe. I choose myself at your expense. Betrayal is not an accident. It is a choice. And choices always have consequences.

Trust is the most fragile currency in the world. It is invisible, weightless, but priceless. You can build it for years and lose it in seconds. And yet, people play with it like it costs nothing. They take advantage of the silence of loyalty. They mistake kindness for weakness. They believe forgiveness is endless. And so they test the limits, pushing further each time, until one day the rope snaps and they realize they are dangling over a void of their own making.

When I give someone my trust, it is not because I am naïve. It is because I have chosen to see them as more than just another face in the crowd. I choose to believe they will guard my back, not stab it. I choose to believe they will protect my name, not smear it. I choose to believe they will hold my truth, not weaponize it. But when that trust is broken, I do not rebuild it easily. And if you dare betray me, then at least be wise enough to make sure you will never need me again. Because trust, once shattered, does not grow back like a broken bone. It crumbles into dust, and you cannot put dust back together.

Life has a cruel sense of irony. The very people you harm today may be the ones you desperately need tomorrow. You never know when the tables will turn. The one you insulted may be the only one willing to speak for you in a room full of silence. The one you ignored may be the only one who remembers you when everyone else forgets. The one you betrayed may be the only one who still has the key to the door you now desperately need to open.

And yet, people betray as if they will never taste hunger. They betray as if they will never need comfort. They betray as if they will never be desperate for a helping hand. But the truth is, everyone eventually faces a moment when pride collapses. Everyone eventually faces a storm that strips away their defenses. And in that moment, they will remember who they wronged. So I say again: before you do me *****, make sure you never need me again. Because if the day comes when you come crawling back, you will find no open arms—only the echo of your own choices.

Some people betray, and then later crawl back, pretending nothing happened. They think a smile erases the knife in the back. They think time alone heals wounds without apology. They think their need is enough reason for forgiveness. But pride is a strange thing. It blinds people into thinking they will never fall. It convinces them that bridges can always be rebuilt after they burn them. But life is not that merciful. Once you burn me, you burn me completely. I do not rebuild bridges that were destroyed in fire. I build new roads elsewhere, far away from the ashes.

And here’s the irony—many who betray are shocked when they discover I can live without them. They believed I was dependent. They believed I was weak. They believed I was bound to them by some invisible chain. But betrayal has a way of showing me the truth: that I can survive without the betrayer, but the betrayer cannot survive without me.

So listen carefully. If you are planning to betray me, at least have the dignity to ensure you will never need me again. Because when you crawl back—and you will crawl back—you will not find me waiting. I will not be your savior when the world spits you out. I will not be your comfort when your pride has eaten you alive. I will not be the shoulder you cry on when loneliness surrounds you. You may laugh now, thinking you have outsmarted me. You may smile, thinking I will never discover the truth. You may even convince yourself that betrayal carries no consequence. But life has a way of revealing hidden hands. Truth has a way of surfacing, even from six feet under. Lies rot. Secrets decay. Masks slip. And when that moment comes, I will already be standing far from you, untouched, unharmed, unmoved.

The real danger of betrayal is not in the act itself—it is in the aftershock. Betrayal creates ghosts that haunt relationships forever. It plants seeds of doubt that grow like weeds. It teaches people to look over their shoulder, to question every smile, to second-guess every word. Betrayal poisons not just one bond—it poisons the very soil of trust, making it harder for new bonds to grow. And yet, betrayers rarely think this far. They live in the moment, feeding their desires, their greed, their pride, without realizing they are sowing destruction. They dig their own grave, shovelful by shovelful, until they are too deep to climb out. And then, with trembling hands, they look for help. But help does not come. Because the one person they could have counted on is the very person they buried beneath lies.

The truth has a strange way of surfacing, no matter how deeply buried. You can cover it with lies, distractions, excuses—but it seeps through cracks, it whispers in silence, it bleeds into the air. And when it emerges, it does not ask permission. It arrives like thunder, breaking open the sky. So I warn you: do not betray lightly. Do not throw away trust as if it were a toy. Do not use people as if they are disposable. Because one day, when the truth stands tall, when the mask falls off, when the consequences arrive at your doorstep, you will realize what you lost. And you will remember this: I do not come back to those who betrayed me.

So before you do me *****, make sure you never need me again. Make sure you will never knock on my door for help. Make sure you will never cry my name when you are drowning. Make sure you will never hope for my hand when you are falling. Because betrayal is a choice, and choices have consequences. I will not be your savior after you have made me your victim. I will not be your comfort after you have made me your target. I will not be your shield after you have pierced me with your own sword. I am not your enemy—but if you treat me like one, then prepare to face life without me. And when that day comes, remember this: you were warned.

Snakes and monsters don’t just crawl in the dark—
they feast.
They slither into your mind,
wrap around your heart,
sink their fangs into your spirit.

They eat your soul.
They hollow you out until nothing’s left but a shell.
A living ghoul.
A body walking without light.

They turn you into a zombie,
not to devour your flesh,
but to gnaw at your mind,
to strip you of reason,
to make you crave the poison that killed you.

They bite like vampires,
not for blood,
but for emotions.
They feed on your joy,
sip on your hope,
drain you until all that remains
is a husk of who you used to be.

They are emotional parasites.
And parasites never stop feeding—
unless you burn them out,
cut them off,
tear them from your veins.

Because if you don’t,
you’ll wake one day
not as yourself—
but as the monster
they’ve made of you.

When I was young, I was scared of snakes.
I was scared of monsters.
But now?
Even a walking snake,
even a backstabbing monster—
they no longer scare me.

Snakes can shed their skins to show their “true selves.”
They can call themselves Cobra, or Viper,
wear the name Rattlesnake or Mamba,
wrap themselves in Coral Snake’s colors,
slither as Python, Boa, Rat Snake, Garter Snake, Corn Snake,
Anaconda, Boa Constrictor…

It doesn’t matter what they claim to be.
Because a snake is a snake.
Venomous or harmless, constrictor or deceiver—
its nature always surfaces.

Some hiss loud warnings.
Some strike in silence.
Some squeeze you slowly, breath by breath.
And some smile in colors so bright
you never see the poison underneath.

They can rename themselves,
repaint themselves,
shed their skin a thousand times—
but the truth remains:
they slither.
They deceive.
They prey.

And the wise will always know:
to trust a snake
is to offer your flesh to its fangs.

And you—
even if you bare your claws and fangs,
no matter what mask you wear—
be it a gnome in shadows,
a vampire thirsting for blood,
a werewolf howling at the moon,
a ghost haunting silence,
a ghoul feeding on the forgotten,
or a zombie staggering through the night—

You are still bound by your nature.
Dress it up.
Hide it.
Pretend you’re harmless.
The truth will bleed through.

Because evil doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it whispers.
Sometimes it smiles.
Sometimes it wears the face
of someone we once trusted.

So go on—bare your claws, flash your fangs,
reveal the skin you’re hiding.
It doesn’t scare me anymore.
I’ve seen worse.

The darkest monsters
aren’t hiding under the bed—
they walk beside us.
Smiling.
Breathing.
Pretending to be human.

But you—
you are not human.
You dare call yourself one?
Tch. Rolling stones, parting seas—
none of that shakes you.
But my God?
My God walks on water.
My God heals the broken.
My God turns water to wine,
feeds thousands with loaves and fishes.
Wonders beyond wonders.

And when my God roars,
your inner demon trembles.

I don’t care what you are.
Even if you are legion, one or many—
you are still Leviathan in my eyes.

There is wisdom in silence, and strength in restraint. When someone throws a rude comment your way, it can feel natural to snap back, to defend yourself with the same sharpness they used against you. But the truth is, replying with rudeness only feeds the fire. It dignifies their insult by lowering you to their level.

Keeping calm in the face of a fool is not weakness—it is mastery. It shows that your peace cannot be stolen by the pettiness of another. Anger is easy; it requires no thought, no discipline. But calmness, that steady stillness, is the mark of someone who refuses to be controlled by another’s immaturity.

As the old saying goes, “Never wrestle with a pig; you’ll both get *****, and the pig likes it.” The fool delights in dragging you into the mud, because in the mud he feels at home. But you—you were not made for mud. You were made for higher ground. To argue with a fool is to step off your path just to prove a point that doesn’t even matter.

The greatest victory over foolishness is not winning an argument, but preserving your dignity. A calm mind, a quiet spirit, and an unshaken heart—those are the true replies to insult.

So the next time someone hurls a rude remark, breathe. Smile if you can. And walk away with your peace intact. For silence will always echo louder than anger, and composure will always weigh heavier than words.

all my life, I have been scared of the ghost chasing me
so I hid from them, but later on, I realized, I have been hunting them down
someone with a random name entertained ideas and try to force them to absorb my mind
but all I know is, I never think of it that way
I am one with the shadows, lurking and observing
never making a peep or a deafening silence to lure people in to listen to me
but this brat is relentless,
uses someone to get what she wants
does she have a conscience? yes, but it was fun to live that way, according to her.
does she feel guilty? no because she sees all of us as a foolish and naive person
she thinks she is the smartest in the room
but no. rather, she is the unluckiest ***** in the room.
trying to snip pieces of information and spreads rumors about us to make her name fragrant
but no matter how many times you bathe in perfumes and body wash,
your soul is rotten, your body stinks, your personality is as dark as your soul

How do you separate yourself from a rotten pile? Throw yourself also? No. Whatever is rotten that sticks to you, you might become one of them too. So, I want you to identify which is rotten and which is not.

Like a puzzle, you do not try to fit in a piece if it is not fitted to be there.

Or when you see a plant that is withering, what will you do? Will you cut the stem? The leaves? The branches? The flowers? Roots? Or will you pull it off? No. Assess the soil. Wherever you are planted, you prosper, you grow. But when you did not prosper and grow, ask yourself, is the soil you are planted in right now making you grow? No. Time to replant yourself to a new soil. Comfort zone is never good. The real comfort zone is the awkward zone.

Fit yourself in the right place, environment and circle.
It does not mean you click and vibe each other, you become friends but respect is not served.
Choose wisely!

I grew up being independent,
perks of being a middle child
seen as a black sheep
a disgrace to the family, problem-bearer but never the solution giver
whenever I share ideas, I was not heard
so, I grew up not sharing my ideas
even if I have because I got a fear that I might be rejected
later on, I realized that I just had to find the right circle where I am heard
where I feel like I mattered, my feelings were valid
I grew up thinking that even if I did my best, I am still not enough

I am tired of pleasing or asking them if I did a good job or not
If I did good or not, if I ******* up or not
still, whatever I do, even if the outcome is good
they said they are proud, but I cannot even see it
I felt in doubt. I felt hesitating to believe it.

but I was wrong,
God gave me a reason to look at the brighter side and not on the bad side
I am sorry if I come out as defensive or offensive,
If I did not want some scoldings but rather words of encouragement is what my soul yearns for
are they happy that I did things for them even if I failed to make them happy and satisfied?
maybe I am in the wrong household then,
and God gave me a reason to move out of my comfort zone
but to embrace the unknown even if things are awkward in this foreign land I am in now.

You are never "just right" or "not enough" in God's eyes, but rather you are "more than enough"

And let them talk. You have to walk away whenever you get the chance.

how was a poet made?

everyone wanted to talk.
they wanted to steal your spotlight.
nobody ever wanted to listen.

a poet writes whatever is bothering in her mind
it was a puzzle waiting for a piece to fit
it was a well waiting for a pail so the water could be fetched.
that is how deep my mind is,
no matter how deep it was, I was yearning for a shovel
to dig up the past that bothers me
just like how I draw stars to my scars to make it beautiful
I turned my ******-up past into a masterpiece,
so, everyone knows why a poetess like me yearns for a mic to hold or drop
but nobody wants to listen
so, I resorted to writing,
because I know, the paper and pen I hold dear will not judge me
even when a single tear in my eyes fell from the paper itself.
for all I know, the pen will not laugh back at me whenever I misspelled a word
or if my grammar is not good.
or if my handwriting is hardly understood
the only thing I have known, is I know my poems will not judge me for being a poetess.
they embraced my flaws and made me renowned.

what is the difference between the tin-can minded person and an abyssful-minded writer?

a tin-can minded person babbles empty words, empty promises
no substance, no form
all baseless accusations with no proof to show

somehow, an abyssful-minded writer
thinks outside the box
when one writes, she is possessed with poetic souls
be it E.A Poe, Robert Frost or William Shakespeare,
she puts her words into her poem.

what about you?
what did you think you contributed to the world, gossip monger?
entertainment to your neighbors?
or just to make your story plausible for naive-minded people?

sometimes, a tin can babbles since it is empty
before you face me, gather data, conduct research
not rely on your emotions and no solid data to back up your information

okay? good if you got it,
if not, goodbye.

she got fire in her veins,
a wolf aura in her soul,
a venomous tongue when triggered,
a dragon when mad,
if I were you, think twice before you cross the line, mouse
a prey cannot escape its predator,
so, call all the names of the saints you know,
perform all the lines you rehearsed when praying
tell all the lies you keep telling yourself
proving everyone we are at fault
when it turns out, you are
do not test me or my patience, it got limits
like your life
we return to dust just as the way we are born into this world
but you consult black magic,
putting ideas into your feeble mind
thinking immortality could save you
well then, if that is what you want
if that is what you are
I will not fight back anymore.

there are times, when I think of the right word to describe what I feel towards the free verse poem I write,
I find not the exact word, but my mind went totally blank while just thinking about it
what could it be? do I just write this poem to make myself plausible for my audience?
here I am again, with questions cluttering my mind
is it bothering me? no. I got Hello Poetry as my friend, to begin with
it is my canvas, my freedom wall to extend my talents in a creative way.