Pain, Pen, and Paper

Sometimes, when people get hurt, we heal the pain, we bleed out words, using poetry. We use pen and paper to say what our lips and voices fail to speak. One of my hobbies is to write poetry, concerning different themes such as body positivity, loving your profession, and most importantly, the love that I failed to have.

Here are some of my works:

FAIR MAIDEN

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who is the fairest one of all?”

As usual, you asked that glass,

Receiving the answer, at last.

“Only she, maiden fair,

The one with the smooth, long hair.

The one with the fair complexion,

And the pretty eyelashes, minus the extension.

The one with the nice curves and slender waist,

An eye candy, delicious to the taste.

The one without the stretch marks and the cellulite,

One with teeth so white, a smile bright as the morning light.

The one with the smart mind,

A rare gem, among fair maidens you will find.”

Little did you know,

That even though nobody tells you,

And the magic mirror has not mentioned you, too,

You are the fairest you can bestow.

It’s okay to call yourself beautiful,

Calling yourself nice and pretty is cool.

Remember that the universe took its time on you,

Crafted you to offer the world something true,

Something different from everyone else.

When you doubt how you were created,

Remember that you are the maiden fair.

You were made to be boasted,

You hold a beauty, so fine and rare.

Dr. Princess

“Please put pressure here,”

I heard her,

As I look to where,

the syringe pierced the flesh,

Where the blood ran fresh,

I remembered her.

She was a little girl,

Playing with a stethoscope,

Adorning herself a lab gown with a twirl,

Evident on her face, a smile of hope.

Though she could not contain her happiness,

It could not hide the struggles the future may hold.

Though on that gown, she couldn’t deny gorgeousness,

It could not muster that she would be hard to mold.

Nevertheless, she wore the gown,

She embraced the stethoscope, just like a crown,

A princess,

Not of a prince, but of syringes,

Of blood and veins,

Of diseases with different names.

She was a warrior,

She knew the body, interior and exterior,

Her knowledge of it was immeasurable,

From extracting blood, she finds it pleasurable.

She is I,

The one whose future lies at the end of this syringe.

“It won’t hurt, do not cringe,”

She does her work with great care,

To belittle her profession, no one would even dare.

She’s a doctor by heart,

And she dedicated her life to this wonderful art.

The art of life itself.

TAYO

May mga pagkakataong

Ayaw kitang isulat.

May mga panahon

na ayaw kong ipaalam sa mundo

Kung paano magmahal ang tulad mo.

Ayaw kong maramdaman nila,

Sa pamamagitan ng mga tula,

Kung gaano mo pinatitibok nang kay bilis ang puso ko,

Sa pagkanta mo ng mga kantang,

Hindi ikaw ang sumulat, oo,

Pero dama ko.

Sa bawat himig at tono,

Hindi malabong magustuhan ka ng iba.

Kaya may mga pagkakataong

Ayaw kong gumawa ng mga talata sa pangalan mo.

Ayaw kong makita din nila,

Ang mga bagay na sa akin mo lang ipinakita.

Ayaw kong madama din nila,

Ang mga bagay na sa akin mo lang ipinadama.

Marahil, hindi mo kinailangan

Ang isang tulad ko

Na igagawa ka ng tula,

Na bibigkasin sa pamamagitan ng mga kataga,

Kung gaano ka kahalaga.

Para tayong tula,

Na hindi nagtugma.

Masarap basahin,

Pero hindi akma.