Showing posts with label spoken word. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spoken word. Show all posts

Monday, January 29, 2018

Musings on Toxic Masculinity

Leery-eyed,
you click your fetid tongue
and smack your dry lips
that are quick to contort into a smirk
as if you know an inside joke
that I am too vacuous to understand.
You do not beckon a woman
the way you would
a horse or a dog—
I am neither.
Your tongue and lips
were made to revere and respect.
You are no god or ruler.
The crown you flaunt
is one you forged out of
machismo-and-bravado-are-all-I-have-to-offer.
We will not bow to you,
and it is high time you stop
expecting that we will.

Image result for i am not an object

-Nocturnal Scribe

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2018

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Musings on Cancer

The day you realize a malignant tumor has made a home inside your body,
The earth will stop spinning on its axis
And light and dark, sound and sense will cease to exist
And you'll wonder how you didn't see it coming.

You'll glare in despair at your reflection,
Panting, choking down sobs, heart pounding in your ears, torn between grief and infuriation;
Demanding to your body, "Why have you done this to me? I've treated you well, haven't I?
I got enough rest, ate healthy meals, even regularly exercised!"

"What about all those years of regular doctors appointments just to check if you were in tiptop shape?
You are the temple I burned incense to for years every day.
But you went ahead and turned my insides against me, spit in my face
A temple no more, but a brothel of disgrace!"

So you try to turn a blind eye to the tumor, sweep it under the rug, wishing it all to be but a bad dream,
It will not magically disappear; instead it will metastasize and curdle your bloodstream
Ignorance is not bliss when you pretend the poison won't spread like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water
Because every minute that tumor remains in you is foolish and stubborn indignation against getting better.

And you will get better
But not before getting so much worse
And when you finally decide to stop believing the lies and realize you need to rid yourself of this curse
You will get better
But not before getting so much worse

You'll schedule a doctor's appointment to go under the knife
You're scared to death, but you still hang on for dear life
Each chemo session drains whatever is left of who you are little by little
But you fight nonetheless, even when your soul is getting brittle.

Your lungs have filled and it's hard to breathe and your heart has suffered too many blows
Your stitches are fresh; your body is sore, still reeling from the chemo
The process is a painful way of dying every day just so you can live
The healing comes slowly, because it's hard to forget...it's hard to forgive

In your bare hospital gown, you look down at your body in a mix of grief and disgust
For years, you deluded yourself into thinking you were healthy; now, it's difficult to trust
The tumor may be out of your body now, but it feels like it's still there
The space it once occupied now feels strangely bare

The days that follow the extraction will be hands groping their way in the dark
You will eventually grow accustomed to the sensation of a jackhammer against your skull, a result of the oceans you cry
Some days, it gets better; most days, you are a coiled up millipede waiting to die
But each time you struggle to fill your lungs with air, you're reminded of this second chance you've been given; this fresh start

Waking up and forcing this facade of normalcy will be a feat even Hercules can't succeed
But remember you are stronger than the gods of old and you will someday emerge victorious
So until then, take as much time as your broken heart and weary soul need
And one day, you will rise again like the sun, powerful and glorious

But until then, there will be days when you'll wonder what would have happened if you'd kept your tumor
And you will begin to miss it later or sooner
And you will wonder why something that was once a part of you can bring you immense grief and pain?
And you will consider if taking back the tumor will make your life normal again.

But remember that whatever happens,
do not go back to whatever hurt you in the past
Do not go back to the love you know will never last
Do not go back to when your joys were outnumbered by your sorrows
Do not go back and hope in vain of better tomorrows

Do not go back thinking you can change what you cannot
Do not go back believing you need to right a wrong, that it was all your fault, because it's not
Do not go back to the "I love yous" and "If you really love me you'd do what I say"s
Do not go back; instead look ahead to hope of a new day

They say it's hardest to let go of mistakes you've spent so much time making
But clenched fists cannot receive the Heavenly Father's abundance of blessings
So let go... and learn to apologize to yourself for the mistakes you've made
Let go and learn to love and forgive yourself and allow the renewing of God's grace

The day you realize a malignant tumor has made a home inside your body,
You should take that tumor right out immediately
And promise yourself never to let back in something God has saved you from
Instead, allow yourself to heal and grow and laugh and cry and love and become

Society calls those who have rid themselves of cancer as survivors
And though your scars are invisible to the naked eye, take pride
For they have made you stronger, braver, and wiser
Because you who were once broken will again be made whole; you were once lost, but now you're found; you were dead, but now alive.

Image result for depression

-Nocturnal Scribe

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2018

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Musings on Thought Intruders

Ever since I wrote that poem,
all I ever think of now is you.
And I really, really, really

need you 
to stop forcing your way
into the crowded spaces
of my mind,
into spaces
you constantly insist on occupying.
Because it's ten minutes past midnight
and I really, really, really

need to 
finish my thesis.
And I can't concentrate when
all I ever think of now is you,
ever since I wrote that poem.













-Nocturnal Scribe
Note: March 8, 2013; 12:00am

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2013

Musings on Feeling Conflicted

Every time I go out,
I always find myself
hoping
for even just a glimpse
of your brown, bespectacled face.

I don't know
when this started happening,
but one thing's for sure:
It started out as something
subconscious.
Now,
I'm fully aware
of how much
I want
to see you.

I tried
to assess my feelings
(or lack of)
by using a checklist
of the usual symptoms
of infatuation
as my guide.

Do I think about you often?
No.

Have my sleeping patterns
and eating habits
changed?
No.

Does your smile
make me have
butterflies in my stomach?
No.

Do I feel the urge
to gush about you
to my closest friends?
No.

Does my heart beat faster
when we talk?
No.

Have I ever dreamed about you?
Twice.

Do I stalk you
over the internet?
Well...I wouldn't really go so far
as to calling it stalking
because stalking would imply...
Alright, alright. Fine.
Yes.

Do I like you?
Possibly.

Well, at least I think
your smile is cute.
I think
your idiosyncrasies are cute, too.

Like how you seem to have
only one hand gesture when you speak;
Like how you slouch
when you walk;
Like how you look shy and sometimes stammer
but are actually really smart.
Like how you memorized
my Youtube comment
on a certain video and
"nonchalantly" tried to ask me
 if I had a Youtube account.

But that's it.
I just think you're cute.
Like a giant brown teddybear
that wears glasses
and amusing polo shirts.

So I'm certain
this isn't love.
Definitely NOT love.

A crush, maybe?

But I answered no
to almost all the questions
in the checklist.

Yet I always find myself
hoping
for even just a glimpse
of your brown, bespectacled face
whenever I go out.

And I'm writing a poem about you,
for crying out loud!

And I don't think
I like you
in that way,
but I still like you...I guess.

So I don't understand why
I feel this conflicted
about you
when I don't think
I even have a crush on you.
And I don't understand why
I want to make you
feel jealous,
which is absolutely ludricrous,
because I'll bet
you don't even remember
my name.
And I don't understand why
a smile blossoms on my face
whenever I get the chance to greet you:
"Good morning, ***."








-Nocturnal Scribe
Note: March 2, 2013; 12:00am

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2013

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Musings on What Couldn't Be

My notebook was filled
with doodles of my name
with your last name
always
attached lovingly at the end
instead of notes
on the elements of poetry
I was supposed to write down.

I didn't think
I needed to learn
about poetry
anymore,
because you were
my poetry.

Penciled hearts scattered its pages.
It was a notebook of hope.

I did a FLAMES of our names,
and with fourteen letters
crushed out,
we added up to L.
It was a sign.
I knew it was.

And you were
my poetry.
Your name was poetry.
Your hello was poetry.
Your smile was poetry.
You were my
definition for love.

You loved me, too.
That, I knew.
It was in the way
you said my name,
in the way
you looked at me.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I was poetry to you, too.

But there was too much pride
on both our sides,
and things ended
before they could even begin.

So to quote the lovely Spektor:
"You are 
my sweetest downfall.
I loved you first."

And you will always be
the one
I loved first,
even though the penciled hearts
on my tattered notebook
have long since
faded away.












-Nocturnal Scribe

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Musings on Garbage

You must think you’re so witty
with the way you pepper swear words
generously into your colloquies; or
with the way you give out sarcastic repartees
in response to offensive jokes
and expect us to laugh and choke                                                     
on our iced teas. 
“F this piece of S and F that F-ing B.”
“OMG! Ha-ha. You’re such an F-ing D-head.”
Don’t mistake my silence for admiration.
Do you have nothing else in your vocabulary?


You must think you’re so funny
with the way you flip the bird
at people randomly
and claim it’s just half a peace sign; or
with the way you gesture inappropriately
at people you call your friends.
You say it’s natural to call them by
degrading names, and say that if they
get insulted, then they’re not your ‘real friends’.
If that’s what friendship is to you,
how many of them did you rend?

You must think you’re so cool
with the way you blatantly talk about porn at the table
and assume you’re doing everyone a favor
by sharing your favorite sites; or
with the way you unflinchingly tell
us about things you did with a friend at a hotel
that just make the rest of us feel uncomfortable.
You must have noticed me looking pensive,
because you started getting all defensive.
“What? I’m just being honest here.”
No one asked you to be.

The whole time, I kept silent as I listened
to you stoop to your lowest possible level.
My ears burned with words I tried to not comprehend
and kept my eyes glued to the gravel.
”What you say flows from what is in your heart.”
It says in Luke chapter six, verse forty-five.
You may call me ignorant and naïve,
but within those fifteen minutes of listening
I was certain I could determine
the exact contents of your heart, and
trust me when I say not once did you sound smart.

You must think you’re so great
with the way you just behaved
in those fifteen minutes since we first met
that you’re probably willing to bet
that I’m just dying to be your friend.
But I’d like to give you a reality check
And show you that you’re just up to your neck
in an attitude problem that needs to end.
And until you realize this, I will be praying for you.
I will be praying for you.
I will be praying for you.









-Nocturnal Scribe

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Musings on Keeping Promises

When I was a child,
I asked a grown-up why adults
don't like watching cartoons.

"It's just not as entertaining for us anymore."
She replied.

And from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter how old I'd get,
I would still watch cartoons.

When I was a child,
I loved eating hard-boiled eggs and noticed
that my tutor didn't like eating them.
So I asked her why.

"I used to like eggs when I was younger,
but I don't like them as much anymore."
She replied.

And from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
now matter how old I'd get,
I would still like eating hard-boiled eggs.

When I was a child,
I read a poem and noticed
that the writer had spelled the word 'through'
as T-H-R-U.
So I asked my mom why.

"It's poetic license."
My mom replied.

Now, I didn't exactly know
what a poetic license was,
but from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter what,
I would get a poetic license.
I didn't even care so much if
I'd ever get a driver's license or not,
as long as I'd get a poetic one.

When I was a child,
my dad told me,
"You're not allowed to have a boyfriend
until you're in college."

So from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter what,
I would wait for the right guy to come along
so I could fall in love with him
and have a love story
as good as my mom and dad's.

If little me were standing
in front of grown-up me right now,
I'd like to think that she'd be pleased
with how I've managed
to keep all those promises
after all these years.

Because I still love watching cartoons
and eating hard-boiled eggs.
And, yes, I do have poetic license.
And I'm still waiting for the right guy to come along
so I could fall in love with him
and have a love story
as good as my mom and dad's.














-Nocturnal Scribe

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Musings on Longing

It's been four years--
four years,
four years...
And you'd think that by now,
I'd have gotten over it.

Well,
it seems like I haven't.
I mean,
I don't always think about it,
but whenever December comes
waltzing
around the corner,
that familiar sense of longing,
that ebbing pain
resurfaces.
And I spend December
in regret
thinking
of bitter
"what ifs".

What if ... I hadn't let him out of my sight?
What if ... he hadn't left me?
What if ... I had done this or that instead?
What if ... things had been done differently?

We'd still be
together,
that's what.
But
it's useless to try to
turn back time in my mind
because what's done
is done.

All I can do now
is hope and pray
that he'll come back...
that I can find him...

Because
believe me,
I've looked.
For four years
I've looked.
And sometimes,
I wonder
if he ever
looks back.

Looks back to that day
at Colon, near Jollibee, Leon Kilat;
or
looks back to that day
at the plaza under the Tambis tree;
or
looks back to that day
at the lake in the woods.

Because I do.

I look back...
and I
remember.

I remember
the intense gaze of his gray eyes.
I remember
his quick grin.
I remember
the way his hair would fall back against his forehead
after he'd brush it away with his fingers.
I remember
how protective
and kind
and generous
he was and
how good he was with kids.
I remember
his charismatic and adventurous spirit.
I remember
that day at the basketball court when
he was so brave when
Carlo threatened him.
I remember
how much he loved
spaghetti.

But...that's all there is
left of him.
Memories.
It's December again.
And I find myself singing
this song:

"So I go back to December,
turn around and make it alright;
I go back to December
all the time."


Come back,
Raphael.
I miss you.













-Nocturnal Scribe


This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.
None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2011