An Escape Route: What Love Can Become

What are you apologizing for? If you love yourself, never seek a reason. There’s no need to answer the mirror when it asks what about you is worth loving. You, still alive, is the only answer you need.

Remember, It’s okay to love yourself and never ask why. Besides, The answers will never be good enough for you anyways. Maybe that’s your biggest problem: how you can hate yourself as much as you do.

Question love long enough and you’ll soon discover hate. Sadly, tragedy is born, not from pain, but love. It’s true, that all life has an end. That death isn’t evil but only a means in which this inevitable truth becomes reality. So find comfort in that fact.

Everything comes into being through cycles. You’re on a journey, but this path isn’t a road; it’s a maze. You must leave a place to get somewhere else. In order to escape a maze, walk through it. Even when you’re lost, you’re where you’re supposed to be. At least, if you learn to think that way. All pathways in a maze lead to an exit, eventually.

Remember this: love cannot be a promise. That connection doesn’t fit in any context. People break promises as easy as glass. They’ll watch it shatter on the floor and won’t bother to pick up the pieces. Instead, they’ll find that shards can make the perfect weapon. It’s sad that people are monstrous that way.

This is why you must be careful of those around you. Be aware of the friends you give that title to. Even the heart can be a weapon to the body it occupies. In most instances, love can be a threat. Provides sanctuary only to take it away from you. So how would you describe Hell? It’s the place where Heaven no longer is.

So what can love be other than a question? It must mean more than a statement. Hold more honor than a promise. Be something greater than a threat. Can love be conformation? That it exists simply because you say it does. If that’s the case, then don’t say love is a road. It cannot lead you to a place you don’t feel exists. Instead, say love is the exit from the maze. This way, if you have no idea where you’re going, you’ll find comfort knowing that you aren’t truly lost.

And you never were to begin with.

a picture of a book with sparkles of light shooting out from the pages as the book is opened

I Have a Question for You…

There’s this saying, it’s better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

Yet, with you, this doesn’t apply. You’re one of those people who always has something to say. There’s wisdom in your words. You say those quotes people love to put on their Instagram. You speak in such a way that even the world slows down a bit. It’s like the wind is trying to get caught in your voice. Even the sun shines brighter, wanting to give you all the spotlight. The world makes way so you can have your moment.  

Don’t be silent. Your words must be louder than your actions. You must speak because you’re the only one being listened to. So why don’t you speak the truth?

When it comes to convictions, whatever you believe in, you must know what to say. If the truth isn’t heard, how can you expect any action to follow? So what is your truth? You must have one if you want to survive this world. When you die, what is it that you want to leave behind? You care about a legacy, right? Then what story are you trying to tell?   

It always starts with a question: Who are you?

The words beat into your head. Creates a migraine you cannot shake. It’s like a virus how it seeps into your skin. Makes a home in the spaces that’s always out of reach. Imagine it as an itch you cannot scratch, even as you peel the skin trying to find it. The scars you leave behind is how it mocks you. It’s as desperate as you for an answer.

So what do you say to it? How do you say nothing without feeling like you’ve betrayed yourself? You run away from a mirror as if the reflection is a monster. And maybe it is. Maybe the reason you cannot answer the question is because you’re afraid of what you might say.

Some questions demand hard truths.

For instance, did you know the body can be a cage to the soul? The heartbeat is the sound of someone banging on a steel door. You want someone to find you. Sadly, self-discovery in the place where you’re lost isn’t likely. You’ve long forgotten where it was you were trying to go. Did you ever know the purpose of a road? That you must create one. This means, you must know the destination. It’s impossible to find what you’re not searching for.   

How foolish of you to think you could. You want a prison to escape itself. How do you demand what doesn’t make sense in any context?

This question is always presented as an interrogation. You committed the crime of being someone you wasn’t. The universe has a strong need to expose liars. Do you think there’s power in your name? Eventually, you’ll be tested on that belief. Are you someone of worth? Watch as everything crumbles all around you. Not many can build kingdoms from ruins. So answer this: what do you have when you lose everything? What you say should humble you.

You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. You’ll never be for someone else what you aren’t for yourself.

A friend you never were. How can you be a diary of someone else’s secrets? I’ve read every chapter of the book you’ve written. No one has ever called you trustworthy. The words printed in your handwriting is sloppy as if you’ve rushed to finish it. Did you think the reader would do the same? Skim through each page, ignore the grammar mistakes, and not ask questions when the plot makes no sense. I see now what has you afraid. The truth is, you have nothing to say because there’s no story worth telling.

Is there?


The Silent Revolutionary and a Poem about Scrap Paper


Are poets revolutionary?

I’ve always wondered the intentions of poetry. Was it a representation of the world? Or do poets, through our writing, change the world to what it should represent?

Then again, maybe I’m thinking too big. I should focus on myself. An entire universe lives within my skin. Me as insignificant as the moon in a galaxy of stars.

I ask myself: can I write a love poem?

Not for anyone else but me. Would that be narcissistic even when devoid of love? I want to tell myself I’m happy and mean it. As opposed to feeling a sense of guilt. It’s like the words I speak are a blasphemous prayer to a god who must be overwhelmed.

If thunderstorms are temper tantrums, then a natural disaster is god having a mental breakdown. And it seems he’s having a lot lately. In fact, I think I should write about it. Find some similarities between the rain and me. Maybe then, I’ll feel this connection to god that has been a stranger. Being a poet is my way of reaching out to a forgotten friend.

But it’s not all bad. Through all the world’s ills, the most important thing I’ve done was love my poetry again.

For a while, I hated seeing my voice written on the page. Becoming so addicted to editing, I never wanted to show my poetry. And to think, I wouldn’t have created this blog or published my poetry book, had I allowed myself to continue falling down that long spiral to absolute nowhere.

If you ask me? I’d say poetry has been therapeutic.

And sometimes, I actually mean it when I say it. What I think poetry has become is a diary. I have a secret that I’m afraid to say. So poetry is how I express the words I cannot speak. This way, I can take something complex and simplify it. Make the unexplainable understandable.

Poetry is a language that is learned through the heart.

It’s not something to be read, but felt. A cry for help through humor or a comedy born of tragedy– poetry is only limited to how open the poet chooses to be. And from this, I’ve discovered my secret.

How I hate that poetry isn’t intended for the poet. Once it’s read, the words are no longer mine. Poetry is the heart and the poet is the body, poked and prodded. You focus on the poetry and forget the poet exists.

However, it’s not your fault. We’re taught to be careless. And in carelessness breads arrogance. We want to see ourselves in everything. Even in what doesn’t belong to us. Poetry is always taken from its owner. This is how a poet can understand the meanings of words that seem similar.

For example, the difference between a refugee and a wanderer is dependent upon two questions: why they left and where they’re going. That is to say, a poet finds inspiration from being lost or searching for something. Either way, the journey isn’t easy.

Of course, no one cares of a poet’s dedication to the craft. We uncover love through suffering– not all of which is our own. This is how we know that love requires sacrifice. We allow ourselves to be wounded in order to reveal the pain that needs healing.

And fear is born this way. When writing poetry, we know it must end. It’s like we write to obtain a sense of immortality. This way, we’ll be remembered even after the poem is finished.

I ask you: what’s wrong with being scrap paper? Or why does poetry have to be read for poets to be respected?

Since you value a good poem, we’ll fictionalize anything. Create ourselves as the protagonists we want you to love. Even if it’s at the expense of our own character.

For me, I’ve found power in scrap paper. It’s why I aspired to be a poet ever since I picked up a pencil. Writing is the closest I’ve felt to being immortal. I’m able to create anything I want from nothing. Tell my story using my own words in however way I want to use them. Instead of writing poetry, I’m able to embody it.

But the world isn’t as liberating.

Sometimes, I ask what’s the point of having scrap paper? A pencil running out of led is useless. And this is my fear.

Instead of an ending, I become afraid of not finishing. What happens to the poem if it’s stopped mid-sentence? Does someone continue where I left off? Is it possible to understand intent when it’s not fully written?

All I desire is to hold no meaning. I’m a radical in my thinking. Wanting to live in a world where worth isn’t depended upon anything outside myself. The more I write, I realize how selfish I really am. I hate how we define poetry: that it cannot be a poem if no one can decipher its meaning.

I’ve allowed myself to be limited. For too long, I’ve settled with being a pretty phrase in a poem. Someone else is telling me who I am. This is no way to live– a poet trapped in someone else’s poetry.

Why do I need to be defined? Instead of poetry, I want to be scrap paper. There’s limitless possibilities of what I can write in the white spaces. Finally, I can write a love poem and actually like it. Not because of the words, but simply because I wrote it.

So yes, poetry is revolutionary.

When I say I love myself, I want to


Love Me Not: Why am I Still Single

When it comes to love, why do we need to have it? In books, movies, or the occasional times I allow myself to be around other people, the concept of “being in love” has been a constant theme. Beaten into my head so much, I feel migraines at the thought that I need to be in a relationship to feel happy.

Sometimes I wonder if being introverted is a disease and my contentment of being single is just one big symptom that has manifested.

Everyday, this question repeats itself in a continuous loop I can never shut off, the question “why are you still single?” seared into my head like an imprint. What’s wrong with being alone? Whether if I’m laying in bed, working, sitting in class, or attempting to engage in conversation with my peers, I wonder what is the fascination with being with someone. As if being by myself is not enough, that I need to be with someone else to make myself better. Is that why we need to be in love? To find in others what we can’t find in ourselves?

And what exactly are we looking for? Is it acceptance so we can belong or acknowledgement to confirm we exist?

If I’m being honest with myself, I feel it’s both. So often, being alone means to find solitude in loneliness, and I feel I’ve succeeded in doing so. Most nights, I find myself staying at home than at bars, snuggled up in a bed than a woman. It’s become routine to simply wish I was out enjoying myself than being out trying to enjoy myself when I’m actually miserable. I’m not sure when my brain began playing this game—to want things it can have but doesn’t truly desire.

Given these points, I don’t think I’ve been looking for answers but truths, that it’s okay to be who I am. Instead of acceptance or acknowledgement, I wanted approval, for someone to find me okay too but maybe that’s the point. As complicated as people feel relationships are, I believe they can be simple.

Once, we see love as an idea we can control; love can be whatever we want it to be.

thoughts, Uncategorized

Exit the Matrix: How I Cope with Loss of Self

The Truth of Social Media will not Set us Free

I’ve come to the conclusion that what is seen isn’t what is real. In truth, what we want is to be seen, which gives us the notion that we’re important in some way. This is how social media has marketed itself to us. By allowing us to create reality, we can be whoever we want to be through photos and online posts. Trolling has become an artform; entire personas built from well-crafted 140 character limits. While human connection has been made simpler, it has only become more difficult. The irony of social media is how people have become more secretive as a result of it.

Belief in anything seems a waste of time when everything is an illusion. Social media has exposed too much. Just a simple look through Twitter and Facebook, I realize people aren’t as real as they claim. Lifestyles are only lived through Snapchat recordings, and Instagram photos are marketing what we consider beautiful. Who’s the person behind the filters? What’s the real story inside a funny tweet about mental illness? Who are we outside what we put on the internet?

The Fantasy of Human Connection is a Nightmare Made Reality

When people say things like “social media has made it easier for introverts to come out of their shell,” I always find it funny. As this way of thinking would imply that people are nice and kindhearted on the internet. We don’t have to look any further than the daily tweets of Donald Trump or the long stream of comments under any Youtube video to realize the fault in that logic. The internet or what we call the “World Wide Web” is an appropriate name. We find ourselves so deep into social media, it’s become difficult to escape its entrapment.

Even I struggle with the balance. How much is too much? The hardest part about social media is showing who I am when I’m not even sure who that person is. I ask myself all the time now: does this tweet express who I am or how I want others to see me? Of course, there’s not much I can do to find an answer. Especially when I see people struggling with this inner turmoil themselves. If only being real was, in fact, reality. We all suffer from some sort of existential crisis hidden within a funny twitter thread about depression.

The Loss of Oneself is Self-Discovery

Posting as a way to prove to people something about ourselves; I guess this is just human nature. Since human existence, we’ve wanted to leave something behind to show that we (at one point in time) existed. Using social media to document our lives, we can make snapshots into movie reels. A camera allows us to turn a single moment into a story arc. This is the best way I can describe what reality is now: a cookie-cutter scrapbook we want to form into memoir. However, it’s important to realize that a novel is only good depending on what it’s about, not in its number of pages.

So when did I start searching for my purpose in life on Twitter feeds and Facebook timelines? Social media has made a fool out of me; somehow, I thought happiness could be found in online threads. But I must find my own worth within myself. Validation cannot be depicted in the number of Instagram likes and Twitter followings. Everything that I’m searching for may not be found as easily as a Google search, and I must be okay with that. Of course, this soul-searching is easier said than done—especially when I still struggle doing so.