Some people’s insecurity has nothing to do with you personally — it’s about the reflection they see in you. You’re a living reminder of the roads they were too afraid to take, the risks they refused to embrace, and the dreams they quietly buried under excuses. Your courage to try makes them uneasy because it exposes their choice not to. Your progress stirs something in them — not admiration, but frustration — because it reminds them of how far they could have gone if they had only moved.

They’ll say you were “lucky” just to downplay the years you’ve worked. They’ll try to pick apart your flaws just to distract themselves from their own regrets. They’ll whisper about you, twist stories, and turn people against you — because in their mind, if they can make you look smaller, their own lack of action won’t feel so big.

But here’s the truth: you are not responsible for their unfulfilled potential. You do not have to dim your light to make their darkness more comfortable. You are allowed to succeed, even if it makes others uncomfortable. Their insecurity is not your burden to carry.

In the end, people will either be inspired by your growth or be threatened by it. And the ones who are threatened? They were never rooting for you in the first place. So let them watch from the sidelines while you keep moving forward. You’re not here to relive their missed chances — you’re here to live your own destiny.

You think you know me?

You only know the version of me I let you see.

To some, I’m kind—gentle even. Someone who listens, who understands, who holds space.
To others, I’m cold. Distant. Maybe even cruel. And maybe I am. Depends on what part of me you’ve earned—or what part I had to become to survive you.

Some say I’m talented. They see sparks, passion, something that moves.
But most? They don’t see anything.
To them, I’m just noise. Background. Disposable.

I can be the warmth in the room or the one who snuffs out the light.
I don’t always choose—sometimes I just shift.

To a few, I’m artistic. Strange, but intriguing. They say I’m original. Unfiltered. A little chaotic in a beautiful way.
To others, I’m just “trying too hard.” Pretentious. A performance waiting to fail.

Some call me creative. A mind that breathes in color and bleeds it into form.
But there are also eyes—watching me like predators.
Picking apart my work. Measuring me with crooked rulers.
Waiting for the day I collapse under the weight of it all.

There are people proud of me. Quietly so. They don’t always say it, but I feel it.
And then there are those who mock me.
Turn my struggles into punchlines.
Celebrate my silence.
Wait for me to trip—just so they can say, “I knew it.”

Some are rooting for my downfall.
Not because I wronged them—
but because my rise threatens something in them they refuse to confront.

Still… there are the rare few who wait with hope.
They’re not loud. They don’t demand my attention.
But they’re there—watching with patience, believing in the version of me even I haven’t met yet.
Waiting for me to grow into myself. To rise.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because I’m not here to prove myself to everyone.
I’m not a performance. I’m not your projection.
I’m not a failure for not being who you expected.
I am a storm. A contradiction. A work in progress.

So whether you cheer for me, mock me, love me, hate me,
Whether you’re waiting for me to fly or to fall—
At least you’re watching.

And I’ll keep becoming.

Many people are educated, yet not well-mannered. We live in a time when intelligence is often measured by certificates and degrees, where the weight of a person’s worth is sometimes reduced to the number of letters after their name. You can graduate with the highest honors, collect diplomas from the most prestigious universities, and master every book in the library… yet still fail the simplest test of humanity: kindness.

“For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her” (Proverbs 8:11). But wisdom without humility is not true wisdom—it is arrogance dressed in a robe and cap. Intelligence without respect is an empty crown; education without humility is a hollow victory. As it is written in 1 Corinthians 13:2, “If I… can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge… but do not have love, I am nothing.” You can be brilliant in mind but bankrupt in soul.

Manners cannot be measured by grades or diplomas; they are not etched into a school curriculum. They are cultivated in the soil of home, watered in the quiet moments at the dinner table, in the way a parent greets a neighbor, in the respect given to elders, and in the gentle tone we use when speaking to those who can do nothing for us in return. Proverbs 22:6 reminds us, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” If the seeds of respect are never sown at home, the harvest will be barren no matter how much formal education one receives.

Schools can sharpen the mind, but only the home can shape the soul. The first classroom is the family; the first teachers are the parents. The first lessons are not in arithmetic or grammar, but in honesty, patience, gratitude, and compassion. A child may forget the details of a history lesson, but will remember the tone of voice used when they made a mistake, the patience shown when they asked too many questions, and the example set when watching how their parents treated others.

Some of the most learned people are also the most unkind. They can debate with eloquence yet belittle with the same tongue. They can speak of great moral principles yet fail to live them. On the other hand, some who have never stepped foot inside a university possess a refinement of heart that humbles scholars. Because true education is not about knowing more—it is about caring better. As Colossians 3:12 says, “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

The world does not remember you for your grades, but for your grace. Long after people forget what you know, they will remember how you made them feel. Proverbs 31:26 says, “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” That is the kind of wisdom no degree can confer.

If the soul was never taught grace within the walls of its first home, no classroom—no matter how prestigious—can truly make up for it. For knowledge may build a career, but character builds a life. And while a title may impress for a moment, respect leaves a legacy that echoes far beyond the grave.

Because in the end, when diplomas fade and titles are forgotten, the measure of a person will not be how much they knew, but how much love and respect they gave.

I hid everything from my friends
They told about how our relationship ends
I lie low and lived a peaceful life
Away from everyone just to forget this bitter strife

Back to when you first met me
Everything runs smoothly
I was once the apple of your eyes
Now you’ve contaminated my life with white lies

Maybe I needed an anesthesia for this pain to numb
I hope you would think where this was coming from
I’ve had enough of everything
Am I not suitable to your liking?

I am not totally healed yet
I am not yet finished loving you
When you left me, I can’t forget
Those footprints of you

It was tormenting to watch
I throw any bullet for you to dodge
It felt like that, you see
How you walk away from me

I called your name, yet you never looked back
You did not mind coming back on your own track
You left a fragment of you deep within my heart
I was in pain, bruised and hurt

I felt it deep within my heart
When you told me, “I want you to be happier”
But you regretted seeing me happier
It breaks your heart

I do not mind being a villain in your story. Let the pages call me wicked, cruel, the darkness you fear.

For you are a clown in mine, juggling lies and hollow gestures, a spectacle that entertains no one but yourself.

I do not mind being a witch in your story either. Call me what you will, label me, mock me, paint me as the nightmare you dread.

For you are a puppet on a string in mine, dancing to your own foolishness while thinking the world bends to your whim.

Whatever you throw at me returns—tenfold, precise, inevitable. Whatever malice you craft in secret boomerangs straight back to you.

Do not curse at me. Do not spit your envy in my direction. Karma, that quiet and relentless force, will handle it.

I am patient. I am quiet. I am the eye of the storm you never see coming, the calm that hides the coming reckoning.

Your insults, your whispers, your envy—they are nothing but echoes in a cavern where I am the only presence that matters.

I do not need your approval. I do not need your applause. I am the story you cannot control, the narrative that refuses to bend beneath your lies.

I do not fight for recognition, nor for revenge. I fight for myself, for clarity, for the elegance of knowing who I am.

I smile quietly, the smirk of inevitability curling at the corners of my lips—not joy, not malice, but the knowledge that all will be revealed in time.

Your clownish antics amuse me. They teach me. They show me exactly what I refuse to be.

I watch. I measure. I allow your poison to linger, heavy in the air, before it returns to its sender, multiplied.

I am the shadow in the corners of your mind, the whisper behind your shoulder, the echo of your conscience you pretend not to hear.

You think you control fate? You think you can shape reality with your small hands? I move with a purpose you cannot see.

Do not curse me. Your spells are weak, your intent hollow. The universe bends to justice, not your malice.

Each curse you cast returns, multiplied, as if the heavens themselves are laughing at your hubris.

I am the calm before the storm, the smirk on lips that no one dares cross, the patient force that watches while the world collapses around fools.

I do not bend for comfort. I do not bow for approval. I do not soil my hands with the dirt of your envy.

I am the shadow that lingers long after the laughter has died, the quiet storm no one notices until it is too late.

You will continue to juggle your lies, but I have no hand in your tricks. I watch, calculating, waiting, knowing the weight of your deceit will fall.

I do not chase closure. I do not demand apology. I do not wait for recognition from those who will never understand me.

I am soft-spoken. I am still. I am deliberate. Every glance, every silence, every smirk is a choice, a lesson, a warning.

You can label me villain, demon, witch, misfit—whatever suits your fear. I embrace it. It is freedom, not condemnation.

For in your story, I am the nightmare you cannot escape. In mine, you are a farce, a folly, a reminder of how easily truth can be hidden beneath laughter.

You dance on stages built from arrogance, thinking the world applauds. I watch, silent, noting every stumble, every misstep.

I do not need to fight. I do not need to argue. I do not need to explain. My life, my path, my peace—they exist beyond your reach.

Your strings are tangled. Your puppetry fails. I do not pull them—you do, unknowingly, against yourself.

Let them whisper about me in fear or disgust; I am already beyond the reach of their petty judgments.

I am the storm that passes quietly, leaving ruin unnoticed until it is too late.

Your envy is a candle. I am the wind. You burn yourself while I watch, untouched.

I am patient. I am deliberate. I let your malice collect, weigh, and return to you exactly where it belongs.

I am soft-spoken, but my silence is a weapon. My calm is a force. My smirk is a reminder that every action comes with consequence.

I am the quiet inevitability, the reckoning you refused to see, the shadow that never leaves.

Call me villain, witch, misfit, storm—I do not mind. I am free. I am unshakable. I am untouchable.

You are the clown, the puppet, the fool, and yet you strut like a king, blind to the truths you cannot see.

I do not mind. Let the story paint me dark, let it whisper my name in fear. I am the calm, the storm, the shadow, and the smirk waiting at the edge of your world.

And in the end, every curse you cast, every malice you harbor, every string you pull—it finds its home, tenfold, in the story that is yours alone.

Why does it always pay to wait?
If I get all impatient, would I be too late?
I can't understand myself lately
It seems like I want to stay

Fell in love with a man who has it all
Loving me perhaps was his call
Ooh, I would love to let him know I'll wait
No matter how long I would always wait

You are all I ever needed
And all I ever wanted
In this world filled with lies
You’re the only thing that’s right

So, I’ll love you with all of my might
Every time I look him in the eyes
It feels like I love to stay
Every time you look and come my way

You are my lover and my everything
You are my forever king
You are mine and I am yours to keep
That’s why I fell in love too deep

You’re the reason why I keep smiling all the time
You’re the reason why I always cry when I miss you
You’re the reason why I could laugh all the time
You’re the reason why I became so happy every day

Because you’re the one I love
You’re the reason why I believed in love
You’re the reason why I chose to stay
You’re the reason why I chose you

My heartbeat is a melody I always hear when I miss you every day
My mind was always filled with thoughts of you every day
I hope you would still love me the same
I hope you'll never change

Because my love for you never ages
And I will always call your name

I will be waiting patiently for you
I will still love you
And right by your side is where I’ll stay
No matter how long or short the days

Your actions told me to stop, So I did.

It was not about the way you open your mouth and say stuffs you don't mean, but rather it was the opposite.

Your actions told me that you were only there when you miss me, hung up on me when everything gets too tough.

I did my best to communicate with you, told you about my frustrations and experiences,

You saw the scars to my battles—but you ignored it.
You laughed on it and asked me "are you sure about that?"
I saw the crimson red flag waving everytime I think of you.
But neither are you too, a greener grass to begin with.

I gave myself or even you—a benefit of the doubt. Surely, maybe, definitely, he will change.

It gets worse. I opened up my wounds for you to see—I understood the assignment.

The moment you showed me your true intentions, I never thought twice, I looked at you like it was the last time seeing you. No feelings, just rage.

And I chose to walk away. Not because I am coward. But because I am brave enough to say that I learned the lesson, now it is time to put to test about what we truly have.

It is time to test the waters—about how deep it will get me. Will I sink, float or drown? Which is which. Even I, didn't know.

This guy I met online
I thought was already the one
He tested my patience when he crossed the line
I lose control and now he’s all alone

When he’s dealing with me
I felt that he’s ignoring me
Since he thinks I was superior to him
He thinks it is making him weak

And he thinks he was inferior than me
That’s why it made him feel weak
I got a lot of things to deal with him
Since it both made us feel weak

He is ******* up all my energy
He is making me feel drained
My mental health’s breaking down again
I felt depressed again

He was so terrible at pretending
He was so miserable at lying
He apologizes countless times
But repeats the same mistakes all the time

He tries to fool me again
Then tried to manipulate and control me
And no sorry could ever bring me back to normal again
Since the trauma, betrayal and trust issues in my head remain

I drowned myself in anything that numbed the pain—ran from the tears, lost in a haze of smoke, maybe just wasted, maybe high, maybe both.

Shots after shots, strangers’ hands on my waist, empty kisses that tasted like bad decisions.

Talking nonsense in front of everyone, laughing too loud, dancing like I own the night.

Cut my hair, inked my skin—each mark a reminder that I’m still here.

A little more reckless, a little less soft. The rebel is back. The ***** is untamed.

My head throbs from all the crying—oh, mercy me!

Drenched in heartbreak, drowning in sin, I light another cigarette, take another shot, let another stranger trace their fingers on my skin.

Anything to forget. Anything to feel alive.

The pain is a lullaby, and I'm dancing to its rhythm.

The rebel is back. The ***** is unleashed.

You made me hate this city.

You made me hate you—ooh.

Every street feels haunted, every corner reeks of memories I’m trying to burn.

I walk past the places we once called ours, but now they feel foreign, tainted, ruined.

So I drown in the neon lights, let the music swallow me whole, lose myself in the arms of strangers who don’t even know my name.

Anything to forget. Anything to erase you. The rebel is back. The ***** doesn’t care.

What type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The kind you would like to hear… or the kind that would make you uncomfortable, uneasy, exposed? I wonder, do you even know what you want? Or are you only pretending, as if the act of asking excuses the fact that you will not truly listen?

Why would I give you my name, my truth, when you are not even interested in knowing it?
To speak it would be like whispering secrets into a void, only to hear them returned twisted, hollow, meaningless. It would be like telling a story you are not ready to hear, or offering an alibi you have no intention of believing.

I see through the pretense in your eyes, the subtle curl of expectation, the hunger for control disguised as curiosity. You lean closer, as if you wish to possess my words, to mold them into something you can understand—but I am not your puzzle. I am not a riddle to be solved, nor a confession to be consumed at your leisure.

Do you hear me? I will not hand you fragments of myself to satisfy your need for dominion. I am entire, and my truths—dark, jagged, untamed—are not for the taking. They are not for your interpretation, your convenience, your shallow curiosity.

Ask if you must. Speak if you must. But know this: the answers I carry are not yours to claim. They are mine. And if you cannot meet them, if you cannot bear them, then step back into the shadows from which you came. For I will not diminish myself to make you comfortable. I will not dress my defiance in tones you can digest. I will not unravel just to feed your illusions of power.

There is a darkness in me, yes, but it is not violent. It is patient. It is patient, and it waits for those who dare to see it fully, who dare to stand unafraid before it. Those who cannot will turn away, shivering in the faint light of their own limitations.

So, I ask again—what type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The answer you want? Or the answer that exists, raw and relentless, untamed by your desires, unsanitized for your comfort? Choose wisely. For the truth does not bend, does not bow, does not apologize. And if you seek it only to satisfy your curiosity, know this: it will not stay. It will slip through your fingers like smoke, leaving only the echo of what you could have understood, had you truly dared.

why does your blood boil out of haste, my love
Are you mad at me? Are you tired of me?
Or do you even love me?
You did not even bother to look at me.
You can stray me away from you
Brainwash me until I forget how it feels
To bleed while being numb
Just to feel pain
Just to taste the pain of blood
Why have you forsaken me?
Did you regret meeting me?
Make haste, I plead
But never heard.

Ohh, I love the way you **** me
It made me crazy
Tease me until I beg for it
Tease me until I want it

I want you in my bed
Can’t get you out my head
Been imagining things lately
Your seduction consumes me

The hornier I get
I still wanna *******
The more I crave for you
What I see is what I get

I’m that drug you’ll forever take
Until you get so high
Until you overdose
I’m that history you would forever remake

Your addiction in me will make you fly
Until you overdose

I want you to **** me baby
Come closer to me
And be a good boy baby
Now come to me

Gotta press play and hit rewind again
Let’s do the foreplay once again
You are insisting in doing so much more
We both crave so much more

I gotta let you know
I’m so addicted to you
Crazy for you
I just wanna love you

Only you got my wild side
Only you got me this wild
You let my inner me expose
You let my outer me impose

They say a curse can run up to seven generations—an invisible chain passed down like a dark inheritance, binding bloodlines in silence. You don’t see it at first; you just feel it. The unexplainable heaviness. The repeating misfortunes. The patterns that make no sense in the physical, yet whisper of something spiritual.

It was said to have been given by my great-grandfather to my grandmother. I didn’t notice it at first—it had always been there, hiding in plain sight. Until the day she fell ill. While searching through her things for something I needed, my hands found it.

A red handkerchief.
On it, strange markings. Latin words I could not read, could not fathom. Not prayers for blessing, but whispers for *******. Figures were drawn—cloaked, faceless, heavy with an aura I could not touch without feeling a shiver crawl through my skin. And there—666, the mark of rebellion against God. A pentagram etched in precise lines, its meaning unmistakable.

The air around me thickened. My heartbeat quickened—not from fear of what it could do, but from the knowing of what it was meant for. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…” (Ephesians 6:12).

I prayed. I called on the name that is above every name until my voice was steady and my spirit unshaken. Then I burned it—watched the red turn black, the symbols twist and vanish in the consuming fire. The smoke rose, curling toward the sky as if something unwilling was being torn away.

But after the burning, the shift came. They tried to shake my unshakeable faith. They tried to scare me. Shadows moved where they should not. Whispers came in the quiet hours. But my spirit—anchored in God—remained untouched. For Isaiah 54:17 declares, “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you.”

Let them try. Let them plot. My foundation is not in the soil they cursed, but in the Rock that cannot be moved. This bloodline will not bow to darkness. The curse may have been passed down, but it will end here. Not in fear. Not in silence. But in the fire of faith.

Come with me and close the door
Let's celebrate and live our life
I just want to have a private life
With you, I'll never ask for more

Let’s just keep it low-key
Though these setups never made easy
My whole world revolves again
My whole life started again

What I had with you, with you
I don't want to share it with everyone, pray tell
It’s a secret I’ll never tell
Oh, I just want and need you

What I had with you, with you
I just want to keep it to myself
Let’s keep them guessing
Baby, this feeling ain’t fleeting

No more, no less
I want you all to myself
I don't share you with everyone else
No more, no less

I'm bedbound with you
I ain't going to leave you
I'm never going to leave this bed
Just like the way you never leave my head

We'll make love as if it's always our honeymoon
What I had with you was over the moon
I'll never get tired of loving you
And discovering you

What I had with you is timeless
Whenever I think of You
I smile all the time
You are all I want and need all the time

No more, no less
My love, I love you

Let me take you away
Somewhere far away
Where no one sees us
In a place, where it's just us

Come and hold me closer to you
I just want you all over me
Whisper in all your intentions to me
I promise to never let you go

I heard a lot of ***** about you— the good and the bad
But did you hear a word from me?
Nah., I don't think so.

When I heard rumors about me, did you even defend me?
Did you even protect my name and my honor, my reputation?
Nah. I hardly ever doubted you would do that.

When your mother talk ***** about you
when your father took advantage of you
When your friends bullied you for your status

You gave them everything, that means risking your life as well
When they started talking gibberish about you
I confronted them, brought back the past for the good things you did
There was no such thing as bro code
you told me, "you are all they have"
but how about me in the long run?
I was always there for you, in your darkest times
I was there for you in your darkest nights
But I wonder where were you?

Defense mechanism is ******* for what you did to me
When the world turned its back around you, I was there
When no one else was there
But now, this is how you are gonna pay me?
I just returned the favor, bruh
I wished you well, not in heaven, not on Earth, not in purgatory whether it ceases to exist, but nah
I wished you in hell.

What you repaid me is shame and horror to my reputation
Oh shameless and audacity!
It was never yours to begin with
But you made me do it— you made me do it
You pushed the buttons, you pull the lever to make me feel this high to come pick you up
And fall you down to the ground
Piece by piece, little by little
From cracks to crumble, you are
Just an average egoistic, self-centered immature guy
Asking from affection and attention from his chaotic-minded mother
And alcoholic-narcissistic father, with a squammy frog-looking sidechick, daily hobby
With a ****** up family tree

I defended you, denied what you did, tolerated your ***** and said to them you are not the type to do that.
But I was wrong, I was wrong, indeed

I got kind, yet you abused me
Treated you like king, yet you only saw me as your servant
I was never yours to begin with, you only paid me for my service
Not for my dignity
I only sold my skills and time to you
Not my whole soul
When other people talk back a lot about you

I did not clap back, instead I was in the front row, front seat
Raised my hands and applaud for you
Supported you along the way
But all of it was a scam, a facade
A trap, a rabbit hole I fell into
An abyss, a pit, Tartarus, more worse than I came from
It was darkness, but I glowed, I crawled my way up to the top
Yet, you kicked me out of the light once again
There were a lot of one-sided *******, biases and fake news spreading everywhere
They believed everything even when it is fake
Truth is nothing when fake is what they believed in

They said, Revenge was never yours to begin with
Revenge was never yours to continue nor to end
An eye for an eye, brother
A tooth for a tooth
And a head for a head
You focused on the speck on my eyes, but you never realized you had a speck in your own eye too
Revenge is only for The Almighty

Pretentious. I was never that type of person
Liar. I never lied about it, but are we in unison?
He told me already yesterday
He had unclear explanations, faulty reasons

I admit it, he is a walking red flag
He might not admit it, but he cheated on me
Caught him red-handed, put him on a pedestal
I might **** him in a heartbeat, no tag

Got no label for that, you see
Who wouldn’t believe such a loser like me?
When he ended things on purpose
He said, he got nothing to lose

My life is a bit candid
I never caught him red-handed
Those moments were unforgettable
True, but lies were unforgivable

He is indeed a wolf in sheep’s clothing
He put himself up in everything
With all the lies, betrayal, and tricks
Let me tie him up in a joystick

"Never share your triumphs with those who never respected your trials. Some only appear for the applause, but never for the preparation."

_Ayna Denisse Mestio Moncenilla, LPT (2025)

That quote somehow rings in my mind.
They’ll show up when the confetti falls.
They’ll post the pictures, tag you with words like “so proud,”
as if they were part of every sleepless night, every bruised knuckle,
every moment you wanted to give up but didn’t.
They’ll stand there smiling in the light,
yet they were nowhere to be found in the dark.

They didn’t hear the silence after every rejection.
They didn’t feel the ache in your bones from grinding day after day with nothing to show for it.
They didn’t watch you pour every ounce of yourself into something that the world kept telling you was impossible.

People love the victory lap,
but they won’t walk with you on the uphill climb.
They’ll sip champagne at your celebration,
but they weren’t there when you drank bitterness and swallowed your pride.
They’ll cheer when you’re crowned,
but they never stood beside you when you were crawling.

And that’s the thing — they can’t respect your triumph if they never respected your trials.
They can’t value the crown if they never carried the weight of it. The truth is, some people aren’t in your life to support you — they’re just waiting for the moment they can be associated with your success.

But my victories are not party favors to hand out to the undeserving.
My success is not a photo opportunity for those who never showed up when it counted.
If you didn’t sweat with me, cry with me, or sacrifice with me — you don’t get to stand next to me when I win.

So no, I won’t water down the meaning of what I’ve earned by sharing it with those who only appeared for the applause.
My story belongs to those who stayed through every chapter — not just the happy ending.

Another memory that still clings to me is the day I told my father I wanted to join the AFP.
I expected encouragement, maybe even just a small sign of belief. Instead, I was met with criticism.
He looked at me and said I could never make it — because I was poor in math.

That moment taught me something: not everyone you expect to believe in you will actually believe in you.
And sometimes, the people closest to you are the quickest to plant doubt in your heart.

So now, I’ve learned to keep my plans close to my chest. I don’t announce my dreams.
I don’t give people the opportunity to dissect them before they even begin.
I will disappear for a while if I have to. Work in silence.
Return when I’m ready.
Not for validation, not for approval — but simply because I choose to.

And yes, I will forgive them for what they said, for what they did during my toughest times.
But I will never forget.
Forgetting means erasing the lesson,
and I owe it to myself to remember.
Not to hold a grudge, but to hold on to the strength it gave me.

I learned that silence is power.
That not everyone deserves a front-row seat to my journey.
That the fewer people who know my plans, the fewer opinions I have to fight against.
I learned that it’s better to surprise them with results than to give them the chance to **** my motivation before I’ve even begun.

I learned that some people would measure you by your weaknesses, not your potential — and that’s fine.
Let them.
Their disbelief is not my burden.
Their doubt is not my truth.

I learned that disappearing is not running away.
It’s regrouping, refocusing, and rebuilding without the noise.
And when I come back, it will be on my terms, at my own pace, with proof in my hands and pride in my chest.

I learned that forgiveness is for my peace,
but memory is for my growth.
I can release the bitterness without erasing the lesson.
I can move forward without giving them the privilege of forgetting what they once said.

And most of all, I learned that I don’t need their applause to keep going.
My drive has nothing to do with their approval — it’s built on the fire they once tried to put out.

I learned that my own family could take advantage of my wins — proudly telling other people about my achievements in public,
as if they were always behind me,
yet criticizing me in private when no one else could hear.
I learned that some people are more concerned with how your success reflects on them than how it truly feels for you to earn it.

I learned that a license, no matter how hard you worked for it, is not a golden guarantee of a job.
No. For me, it’s not a finish line — it’s only a ticket.
A ticket to knock on the next door,
to apply for another career, to open another path.

I learned that life doesn’t reward you just for passing. It rewards you for persevering.
And sometimes, the very people who celebrate you in front of others will be the same ones who try to chip away at your confidence when the crowd is gone.

That’s why I’ve stopped telling everyone my plans.
I don’t need their premature opinions or their silent sabotage.
I’ll speak when I’m ready.
I’ll show them when it’s done.
And they can tell the world about me again — but this time, they’ll have nothing to do with the victory they’re bragging about.

This experience somehow humbles me.
It reminds me that no matter how much doubt or criticism comes my way,
I am still standing — and that’s enough reason to be grateful.
I’m grateful for the lesson I learned along the way,
even if it came wrapped in pain.

On this bumpy road, I have met all kinds of people.
Some quietly waiting for me to fail,
others hoping I’ll make a mistake just so they can say they were right.
I’ve met the insecure ones — the ones who try to dim someone else’s light because they’re afraid to ignite their own.

But I’ve also learned this: it’s not my job to fight them, prove them wrong, or carry the weight of their insecurities.
Let God deal with them.
He sees their hearts and mine.
And I am secured, safe, and unshaken in my Creator’s presence.

I move forward not with bitterness, but with peace.
Not with vengeance, but with the quiet confidence that no matter who’s watching,
I walk this path with God beside me — and that is more than enough.

"Worrying is like worshipping the problem"

Every moment you dwell on it; you give it more authority over your mind and heart. You feed it with your attention until it feels bigger than it really is. But the truth is, problems shrink when placed beside God’s power.

“Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27). Shift your focus from the weight of the obstacle to the strength of the One who can move it, for “with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). What you magnify is what will dominate your life — so magnify hope, not fear. And when anxiety rises, remember: “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).

Shift your focus from the weight of the obstacle to the strength of the One who can move it. What you magnify is what will dominate your life — so magnify hope, not fear.

Regrets taste like yesterday
Change is what I am today
I can still sense you even when you’re away from me

I’m two steps behind you
No time to talk to you
Now you’re miles away from me
Meeting you was like yesterday

Reminiscing, imagining
Visualizing, glancing

You and me, against the world
You and me, on top of the world

But you let go of my hand
I don’t understand
Loving you was my best memory
Our love was my favorite story

Everything was a mystery
Now history has repeat itself
And I am all by myself

Now I’m all alone
Dancing with your ghost
Now I’m all alone
Now you’re not here when I needed you most

I cannot love someone else greater than you
I cannot find someone better than you
You are the best for me
Cause when you left me

A part of my heart has been with you
And it has left me broken
Broken, oh

I close my eyes, and heard your voice
Your voice is something compared to the noise
I hear everywhere
You are all that I ever want to love

I killed a part of me to keep you alive, but it turns out, you went behind my back and betrayed me.
I want you to know but I will never tell you
how it happened so quickly.

how you ruined our family.
over your child's baseless information.
over granny's nanny's useless explanation.
you broke my trust.
I am mad at you.
but still, I wished you well.
I wish you well, in Hell.

So, questions asked by someone—
They fly through my mind, relentless, persistent.
Like I am some kind of menace for reacting,
For feeling, for living, for not quietly swallowing it all.

The question came, almost innocent, almost curious:
“Have you already forgiven him?”
Yes. God knows when. Or maybe I haven’t.
Maybe it’s because I never dug deep enough,
Because I never gave it all the attention it demanded.

I have forgiven him.
Forgiven, for the fact that I can look at him straight in the eyes,
Like nothing ever happened.
And yet, I am grateful that I never had to.
That I never saw him again after it all.

I gave myself permission to heal.
To focus on the parts of me I had neglected,
To tend to the wounds that only I could mend.
I let go of things I no longer need.
Things that only weighed me down, that tethered me to yesterday.

Declutter your mind, I tell myself.
Do not allow the unnecessary to clutter your thoughts.
Do not let it strangle your dreams,
Do not let unworthy people pull you down the rabbit hole.

Like Alice, I once fell, naive, curious, too trusting.
But I am not Alice. I am wiser now,
Or perhaps just mad, a little scarred,
Aware that some thoughts and feelings should never be invited in.

They live rent-free on my mind sometimes.
Unworthy, invasive, relentless.
I have learned to push them out,
To close the door firmly, lock it, and walk away.

I wish I could say I am the same as before.
That the old version of me still exists somewhere, intact.
But I am not that person anymore.
The old me feels distant, almost foreign.

Yet there is a quiet strength now.
A patience I didn’t have before.
A discernment that guides me through the noise,
Through the memories, through the half-healed scars.

I remember, yes. I remember everything.
Not to relive the pain,
But to honor it, acknowledge it, learn from it.
And to remind myself that I survived, that I grew.

I have learned that forgiveness is not a gift for them.
It is a gift for me.
For my own peace, my own sanity, my own growth.
It is not forgetting. It is not condoning. It is moving forward.

And moving forward is messy.
It is not linear.
It is not neat.
It is stepping into the chaos of life with a sense of purpose,
Even when the past tries to sneak back in.

I have healed enough to see what I need.
Enough to recognize what drains me, what harms me, what is unworthy.
And I will not fall for it again.
Not now. Not ever.

The old me would have let it consume me.
Would have obsessed over every word, every glance, every slight.
But the new me knows better.
I choose myself now, every day.

I am not bitter. Not truly.
I am cautious. I am wise. I am alert.
And I am grateful for the lessons,
Even if they came wrapped in pain.

So yes. I have forgiven.
I have moved on.
And I have grown.
Not Alice, not naive, not lost.
But stronger, clearer, finally free.

My God, Our Creator—
Is so forgiving, has forgiven me
So, who am I, an imperfect mere human
Would not be forgiving to the ones who wronged us.

Pray tell, pretentious beast—***** rather.  
Why do you keep bothering me?  
Stop that sht, will you? Or else I'll be the one to put you in your place.  

You slither in shadows, whispering poison,  
masking your malice with sugar-laced lies.  
But I see you—oh, I *see you,  
a wolf in stolen silk, parading as a queen.  

Keep pushing, and I’ll carve the truth into your façade,  
rip that porcelain mask off your two-faced smile.  
Shall we see what’s beneath?  
A coward? A fraud?  
Or just another desperate soul feeding on borrowed pride?  

Your theatrics bore me—  
a puppet with tangled strings,  
dancing to the tune of your own hypocrisy.  
One more step, and I’ll cut them for you.

red or white of any color, the moon is still the moon
Regardless of its phase, crescent, half, full or new— it was beyond perfect, still
But beyond perfection, its beauty is breathtaking.

You gave me limited time
They gave me unlimited time
You gave me love
They gave me lust

You gave me affection
They gave me attention
You showed me love
They broke my trust

But none of those matters
Because you matter most to me

Cause you are my cure
You are my pain
You’re the only reason why I remain
Because your love is so pure

You are my happiness
And my sadness

You are the love of my life
In every feeling of bitter strife
That is what you are to me
For you are everything to me

You are my hope when I had none
You are my strength because you are the one
Now, who strengthens me, who consoles me
Now, who loves me and supports me

And that is you
There’s no one like you

Let God be our foundation
And let’s be each other’s motivation
In my black and white world
You are my color

And days have passed as I have loved you
It has grown so much stronger
You are my world
I hope you feel the same way too

Let’s be lost in our own world
With your hand I’d always hold
And in your arms is where I belong
Even if this is all wrong

You can imitate me. You can mimic my movements, my tone, my laughter, even the cadence of my anger. You can trace the shape of my gestures, copy my style, attempt to mirror the smallest inflection in my voice.

But you cannot duplicate me. You will never carry the weight of my experiences, the fire that tempered my spine, the storms that molded my soul. You can replicate the surface, but never the essence.

AI can reproduce patterns. Machines can repeat behaviors. Algorithms can echo phrases. But true originality cannot be coded, cannot be replicated, cannot be owned. The original carries life; imitation carries nothing but shadow.

I am not a formula. I am not a template. I am chaos contained, fire tempered, pain transformed into power. I am both storm and calm, blade and sanctuary, and no mimicry can encompass that.

You may study me. You may observe me. You may attempt to clone the shape of my brilliance. But no matter how exact your imitation, it will remain hollow. Your version will lack marrow, blood, and flame.

Regal is not in posture. Regal is not in outward perfection. Regal is in scars survived, battles endured in silence, storms weathered without complaint. That sovereignty cannot be duplicated, cannot be mirrored, cannot be manufactured.

Imitators will always exist. They will analyze, replicate, echo. They will think repetition is mastery, mimicry is power, copying is creation. Let them try. They will always fail, because the original is untouchable.

Every gesture you copy, every phrase you echo, every image you recreate—remember this: surface alone is never enough. Substance, experience, depth—that cannot be borrowed. That cannot be replicated. That belongs only to the original.

To be original is dangerous. It invites scrutiny, envy, and fear. It asks of you honesty, courage, and the willingness to bleed. But it also grants freedom, power, and authenticity that no imitation can ever achieve.

Imitation may flatter. Imitation may deceive the naive. Imitation may convince the blind. But the awakened, the alive, the rooted—they see the hollowness immediately. Shadows can only walk in shadow. Fire cannot be mirrored.

The arrogance of those who imitate is always amusing. They think mimicry is mastery, repetition is understanding, shadows are substance. Let them. Their shallow echoes cannot compete with the depth of an original mind.

True mastery is forged in pain. True originality is born in solitude. True brilliance is earned in storms that cannot be copied, in nights endured alone, in fires walked through without assistance.

You may mimic my laughter. You may mirror my rage. You may repeat my words. But you cannot feel the life that shaped them, the marrow that sustains them, the flame that drives them.

Originality is not surface deep. It is blood and fire and storm and scars. It is the pulse of survival, the rhythm of triumph, the melody of pain transformed into strength. And that cannot be imitated.

Mimicry is comfort. Duplication is safe. Imitation is easy. But originals are dangerous. They burn. They bleed. They rise from ashes. They cannot be predicted, controlled, or contained.

You can follow. You can echo. You can mimic. But the depth—the soul, the storm, the life lived—is inaccessible. That belongs to the original. That is untouchable.

The world may reward the imitators, the mimics, the shallow echoes. But only the original carries the authority of life lived, the sovereignty of experience, the gravity of authenticity.

To attempt duplication is vanity. To imitate without understanding is folly. To chase shadows is weakness. Originals do not bend to imitation—they endure, evolve, and remain untouchable.

So let them try. Let them mimic. Let them study and copy. Let them think repetition equals power. They are shallow. They are hollow. They are decoration. And they will always be beneath the original.

You can imitate me. You can mimic me, replicate me, echo me. But you will never duplicate me. The regal, the untouchable, the original—the essence that bleeds and burns and rises—cannot be cloned. It belongs only to me.

You move like a shadow, silent and sly, smiling while plotting behind my back, and yet you think your movements are invisible. You believe the smoke you leave behind can hide the fire within you, but I have learned to read the embers, to see the heat of deceit even in the faintest glimmer.

You think no one sees, but I see everything. I notice every flicker, every hesitation, every whispered plan meant to harm, meant to manipulate, meant to control. You think cunning is strength, but it is weakness when the prey becomes aware.

The Leviathan does not roar in open waters. It hides in the depths, coiled, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And you, in all your arrogance, emulate it perfectly. You move with the patience of a predator, the coldness of a storm that no one can predict, yet you underestimate me.

You call yourself loyal. You call yourself trustworthy. I have seen the truth of that claim—every word you speak is a hook, every smile a net, every gesture a trap. You live in deception, and you breathe betrayal like air.

I have learned to watch. To read the currents of deceit. To anticipate the tide before it crashes. Your hands may be hidden, but the ripples of your actions are never subtle enough for me to ignore. You cannot sneak past me anymore.

Every relationship you poison, every trust you break, every bond you twist—it all becomes a map of your own darkness. And I keep it in my mind, cataloging, observing, learning, turning your chaos into my clarity.

You thrive in shadows, in moments when others are blind to your intentions. You think cleverness is a shield, but it only exposes you to those who truly see. And I see you. I have always seen you.

I will not be caught. I will not be baited. I will not stumble into the traps you lay so carelessly. Your charm cannot fool me; your false concern cannot move me; your lies are transparent to the eyes that know the depth of truth.

You inspire me, yes, but not with admiration. You inspire me to be stronger, smarter, colder where you are reckless, patient where you are impulsive, and unshakable where you believe your claws can touch me.

I watch your back, but you cannot watch mine. My edges are sharpened by experience, honed by betrayal, fortified by every lesson you unwittingly taught me. I have become the storm that cannot be predicted, the depth that swallows deception whole.

You think you are subtle, but the Leviathan leaves traces, and so do you. Every whisper, every glance, every small manipulation leaves a mark. I see them all, etched in the ripples of your presence.

You are venomous, yet I am immune. I have learned to smile while striking with precision in thought, not chaos. I have learned that patience and awareness can turn the hunter into the hunted in ways you cannot imagine.

You inspire me to create walls—not for isolation alone, but as monuments to the strength that grows in response to betrayal. Each brick is a memory of your deceit, a reminder of the power you cannot touch.

I will forgive silently. Yes. But forgiveness does not erase the memory of the knife you pressed to my spine, the shadow of your betrayal, the taste of your arrogance. I will forgive to survive, not to return.

I will move forward, leaving you to swim in your murky waters, tangled in your lies, suffocating in the chaos you cultivate. You thrive on destruction, but I have learned to thrive in spite of it.

You inspire me to love truth fiercely, to protect loyalty like treasure, to respect bonds where you only see opportunities for self-interest. Every time you break trust, I rebuild my fortress stronger than before.

I will not look back. I will not stumble over your shadows. I will not descend into your darkness. I will remain steady, unwavering, the calm that no storm can touch, the light that no shadow can hide.

You are the Leviathan in human skin, but I am the lighthouse. I illuminate paths you cannot see, warn those you wish to mislead, and endure the waves you create without faltering.

Every betrayal you commit sharpens my perception, fortifies my boundaries, strengthens my resolve. Every dagger you wield, every lie you spin, every smile that hides poison, becomes another lesson etched deep into my bones.

And above all, you inspire me to be nothing like you. To never be hollow. To never betray. To never let bitterness poison my soul. I am stronger. I am wiser. I am free. You may move in shadows, but I am the clarity that cannot be obscured.

You will drown before you learn to swim.
Not once, not twice—but again and again,
the weight of the water pressing down,
pulling at your lungs, your limbs,
teaching you the rhythm of survival.

You will fall before you learn to rise.
You will taste the bitter sting of failure,
the cold slap of disappointment,
and yet, your spirit will not break.
Every bruise, every scar,
is a lesson carved into your being.

You will go hungry before you learn to cook.
You will face the emptiness,
the ache of patience,
and only then will you understand the craft of creation—
how to nourish, how to transform,
how to take raw things and turn them into sustenance.

How will you ever learn if you never try?
How will you ever fight again if, when defeated, you surrender?
The world does not wait for the faint of heart,
and victory never comes to those who quit.
You must rise, stumble, fall, and rise again,
for every defeat is the seed of your strength.

Life will push you, unrelenting,
until you discover the courage you never knew you had.
You will stumble in darkness,
feel lost, feel small, feel fragile,
and yet, somehow, you will rise.
You will rise because falling is not the end.

The ocean teaches patience,
the ground teaches resilience,
hunger teaches skill,
and defeat teaches courage.
So let yourself be drowned, let yourself fall,
let yourself go hungry,
let yourself lose,
let the lessons wash over you,
for it is only through struggle
that you learn the art of standing tall,
the courage to swim,
the wisdom to feed yourself and others,
and the strength to fight again.

Bitter Truths of Self-Review

I hustled in silence.
And everyone reaped the benefits of my success.

So many people said “Congratulations!”
But truth be told, I appreciate more the ones who walked with me during the storm—
The ones who asked, “How are you?”
Who checked in—not to gossip, not to judge—
but just to be present.

Support doesn’t always look like grand gestures.
Sometimes, it’s the quiet voice that says,
"You’ve got this."
"Rest if you must."
"Keep going."
Those words—
they replenished my soul when it was hanging by a thread.

I studied for five months.
But behind those five months
were moments of silence,
whispers of anxiety,
and distractions that clawed at my focus.

Special mention to my aunt, my cousin, and his girlfriend.
They gave me sleepless nights—
noise I didn’t need, chaos I didn’t ask for.
They pulled my thoughts away from my goal,
and I... I stayed quiet.
I bit my tongue.
I placed my anger at God’s feet.
I didn't want to explode—
but I would be lying if I said I never thought about it.

I told myself,
“If I don’t pass the board exam, I swear, I’ll curse them in my heart.”
But I passed.
Not because I was perfect.
Not because I was better.

But because God is great.
Because He saw my silent tears.
He witnessed the moments I wanted to give up,
the arguments, the loneliness, the exhaustion.

They tried to pull me away from my dreams.
But God pulled me closer to them.

So no—this success wasn’t just mine.
It was God’s mercy.
It was the quiet support of a few souls who believed in me.
And it was my own battle—fought in silence,
won in prayer.