Telling you everything sometimes means saying little or nothing…at all…


[To champion choice…be one to have choices]

Let us never forget what it is to give

For we have always been given more

And at a moment’s motice, remember to live

A gift not many have revered before

This is but a fickle poke in the back:

Many have chosen to lay aside their sword

As if to be, become, have been

Never was the hint of a vivid war

But in these our days of plenty,

Let your tempered heart outdo

your hands, your feet, yourself.

Your pulse strong and undying

will leap forth in your words

will show on your flushed face,

your brow will not go away ignored.

The soul always shows its face

–it cannot lie.

The humble facade gives

birth to the greatest of feelings:

and the subtle smile on

your face shall not be pained

but let you, you–

let you be the truest thing alive

so that you do not betray yourself

to the beautiful front assumed..

bound tight by your faults…

be human.

in the reflection of your salt tears,

your being is whole.

[ let us live]


hey rime wire,

sure you can feature my blog…hope you get something out of it.

happy to find a person with my type of sensibilities. cool.

thanks for appreciating this.


p.s wanna email each other? let me know.




The Maiden

Your ebony hair falls in waves

Upon sun-kissed shoulders

brown, the warmth inviting

like shores unexplored

inviting, secretly waiting

for your conqueror.

He comes unexpectedly

Thus, does your smile fade

 white shackles bind you,

 his feet at your tender throat,

your eyes, blossoming with tears

-held captive by a beast,

the young maiden,

my Philippines,


Note: Postcolonial criticism is the anlysis of work produced in colonies and counties subjected to foreign rule.  In Asia, the Philippines is an example of such-it was colonized by Spain early on. The Philippines is portrayed as a maiden who is defiled by “white invaders”-them being the Spanish people who for some time oppressed the Filipino people.



 The Need

   He groped for her breasts, hands eager to meet with flesh. He needed to satisfy himself then and there-he was hungering for what she was eager to part with-the joy of satisfaction. Truth be told, he was happy to be of assistance-it served his purposes as well as hers. She released the buttons that held her blouse in place and unhooked her bra. He wasted no time in relieving himself, causing her to groan as he captured her nipple between his wanting lips. Her nipple felt warm and firm in his mouth-it felt at home right where it was-no other sensation registered on his mind. With satisfying greed, he tugged at it, sucked at it with gusto, ocassionally biting it to make it seem even more appealing than it already was. He drank in the pleasure that she gave him and fell asleep with the thought of taking more later when and where he wanted to.

  Having sensed that he was finished for the time, she released her breast from his hold and wipped the milk droplets that strayed from his mouth.

 Note: Reader-response criticism is a very versatile type of criticism-we are lead to the idea that it is a subjective type of analysis. A reader may interpret the story primarily to be a lustful sex scene but it may also display Freud’s idea on the id-a part of the personality that is innate in all infants, and constantly displays the need for satisfaction. Any work may be seen is a number of different ways depending on the readers of the said work-the reader decides what is to become of a work and what might be its underlying themes.



A Man

A tells me to want

But B asks why

A says that I just do

No reason.

B needs to know though

Although C feels guilty-

“It’s not right!”

A could not care less

B is skeptical of such

C sighs-

“Do what you will”

B glares-

“What’s reasonable you mean.”

“What’s right, actually.”

C clarifies it all.

A smiles at the other two-

Gratification at last.

I shake my head-


Note: Freud explains that there are 3 components of the personality: the id, seat of innate passions, the ego, seat of reason and the superego, seat of moral values. In this poem, the three reconcile somehow so as to allow man to finalize decision and take action. Decision-making rests on the shoulders of these three.



To Margareth

Oh Margareth,

If love for you were a pretty penny,

he would have none to spend on you-

that spoiled frock will not do,

your breast will not suffice,

nor will cracked lips that ache

for kisses wet and sweet

the way barren land moans

for rain during draught.

-he loves me.

Note: Marxism is a way of studying text in such a way as to evaluate how the socio-economic conditions of a particular author influences the production of a work. In this poem, my personal analysis revolves around an bitter relationship between Margareth and her husband-she is traded for the speaker in the poem (which one may deduce to be the third party). and through the speaker, laments what she herself denies-that her husband is cheating on her. Margareth is shown to be a victiom of both financial constraints and an ill husband. She is likened to barren land that is in need of nurishment in order to survive-love in this case. Her husband has nothing to spare her-just as barren land that cannot be benefited from, she is abandoned and traded for what is thought to be “greener pastures.”Marxism points out that in the assembly line, every piece composing an intended product must have its use-seeing as Margareth has none at present, the husband leaves her-similar to junking a piece of material not suitable for use.


This is for my final exam, Sir…


A Word In Time

   This world is a world of words, created from nothing, longing for memory, stopping once and them moving forth with each thought that is born with Father Ink and Mother Hand.

   With each sweep over paper, each a, an, the, with and but, so we say that there is more to the period that ends this sentence.

   There is more to what I am saying and to what you are reading. We are taking the world by sway, through humble and proud tidbits of what we think is and that which we think is not.

   And as much as we create these our worlds, we destroy themwith a word we begin and end it all. This then, is the power of wordswords that don reality or fantasy or a mix of both-words that form regardless of the idea of passive and active.

   This is a truth I can’t let go of, for as I write this now and as you follow me, you will see that I have created that which is seemingly inconcrete I have sculpted wispy thoughts into something solid. My thoughts come to life, structured but also free, frolicking in the hot air balloon that is my mind,  ideas wondering free but also into their rightful places-molded into letters, words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, articles.

   These my words are free to fly but they are closer to earth and not far from the heavens either. Here I retain my stardust-a human becomes a celestial being, holding all in limbo until he makes written works his or her own and displays them gallantly in the sky. The writer rules the world of thought.

   Because even though I may now say so much, I may actually mean so little or say so little but intend to say so much. Words help us decide-each word is already a decision and in true fashion, it is for each one of us to decide how the mechanism constricts us-or leaves us virtually free. What do you think? I want you to tell me in your own way-with what ever symbols to produce whatever takes the form of your thoughts-these thoughts that make words that create and destroy, die and come back to life again to rebuild everything around us. 

   This world is my word-a way of saying that a world is created from words and that words are created from words themselves, interlocking dependence essentially. The world is a word made

                                       from what you choose

                                       from what they choose

                                       from what I choose

                                                                                 and what we don’t.

   This is to our worlds…worlds of words and words of worlds.

   Note: In structuralism, a signified does not naturally go hand in hand with a signifier-each choice attaching a particular meaning to a particular concept is virtually brought on by choice and such choice is also affected by time and culture. Language is structured to a certain extent but it is also free within a structure-the use of language can be manipulated in numerous ways and in this manner alone, proves such a point. There are numerous symbolic combinations that create words brought about by the eternal possibilities of thought and sound. This is the wonder of language-that which is structured is also flexible and versatile.


…that being the title of my memoir, a bit on me and my father whom I love very dearly, sweaty afternoons, laughter, tears and bicycle rides in tow.

Back when I lived in Iloilo during my elementary school years, my Papa and I never failed to enjoy our together time…until a civil case literaly wrecked havoc in my family and left my father a broken man. He died not long ago when I was but fourteen….but truth be told, I lost touch with him ever since I was twelve. Still I remember him, sprawled on the bed asleep one two many dawns ago in Villa….and to now think that he sleeps amongst the Never-Again-Be-Reawakened….well, some memories sting and burn more than others.

And why then, out of all memories, should I relive this very memory concerning my Papa?

I can only hope to answer.

I have always promised him in my heart that I would write of him and for him, the best I could possibly at a time. He has denied me many things—past and future graduations celebrating together, my debut (where I pictured him swaying me to a Love Me Do by the Beatles), and the thought of being turned over to the man I love on my wedding day. I hurt terribly at such thoughts and yet I came across these thoughts…

….shouldn’t it also hurt for a father not to be with his one and only Pudding (the nickname he gave me)?

…..doesn’t he still have plans for me and stories to tell that never again will see the light of this world’s day?

…..won’t he really disappear if I let go of him without a fight….silently….?

I want to believe that he still is and always will be…there.

Because although I want clobber him with my very fists…

I can’t.

I just can’t.

And love still on its own, is another matter.

And because the love outweighs the hurt, I let the love stay…

….to let me write of him and how I feel…

…..to tell him that this memoir is for him.

I just wish he could hear me now…

….not with cries and wails, but with my pen…

…resounding with the passion of a child waiting to come home…

…………………………………and at the right time, it will happen…

I am just a child, baring my soul, prone to ridicule and criticism….

….and yet like I child….I couldn’t care less about it…

The pen is my passport to Him.


 I write because I was, I am and I will be.

 I write because that is how I understood the “I” in “Me”

…………………………        ……………………………..      ………………………….   

When a writer writes, he or she puts himself upon the chopping block, ready to get his or her neck cut without letting go of the notion that he or she is ready to see to it that the same head stays on.

Hmmm. When I write, as in my memoir, I write, trying to imitate if not to relive my past childhood, that of a child that saw the world with innocent eyes and relished the attention of being the only child of my parents. I write with such a perspective, barring me from certain thoughts, making me ignorant of sibling rivalry,that being brotherhood and sisterhood, but being quite aware of not being forced to share something or split my favorite candy down the middle lest some kid under our roof throw a crazed tantrum.

Writing such a memoir as to test my knowledge of a unique past–for a family might have gone through a similar past but experiencing or retelling such in one’s own way is entirely different–this also reflects the type (a.k.a personality, character) of person I am in choosing such a voice and or point of view while telling my tale. A persona may hint the age, influences in writing and notably, a writer’s style in well, writing. Writing in a particular way says so much about the writer himself.

Why was it that I wrote about that particular memory in my life, stating the story of a portion of my life through the afternoons I spent with my father?

  •  I loved my father to a fault–his faults and all
  •  A part of me lived and died in Iloilo City, now that I think of it, bicycle wheels and all
  •  Death has now separated me from him but writing tells me that I have outdone death in resurrecting my sleeping Papa in another way
  •  My Papa was more than a father to me…he was a friend, comrade, ally and constant playmate to a very boisterous and overly energetic daughter
  •  I realize that I knew so little about him back then and still do…and I pray that writing helps me touch even the slightest of himself so I can delve deeper and discover who he really is.

And in writing, I discover a whole lot more about the craft like:


  •  Word choice is important, not only in explaining ideas and propagating dialog, but in letting one’s readers know about the author himself through the usage of certain words and even his language biases (if there is such a term with nigger and dark-skinned man being two of my examples) when possible. Using the word “payment” instead of the word “bribe” means a very different and very seperate thing when both arecompared with each the other. Words have the power to either expound a topic or to confine it. Word choice is very important in any form of literature and especially so in poetry and flash fcition. In using particular words, I am acknowledging my preferences in grammar and therefore in language. I happen to believe that one word makes a world of difference when used appropriately and effectively. That’s why all writers must make use of words wisely. Doing such leads to better writing. Words hold so much power.

And being a child-at-heart is no obstacle.

I have always believed in my heart, never once doubted that I am child, and not wanting to lose what is left of my childhood that isn’t a memory, I have resorted to writing to record my childish thoughts and feelings although my mind constantly reminds me that I’m eighteen years old and therefore, not a child. I have always loved writing and perhaps the way I write is influnced by how much I love to express myself in both written and oral form.

I’m not a writer just yet. I write but well, I’m not just quite there yet….experienced and all. There is so much more that I need to learn about the craft.

Still though, in my private heart, when I write, I take pleasure in what I have created regardless of the voice, the persona and the words used in my work. This is because creating something that you can call yours is for me, quite a feat already. For all we know the person sitting right next to us might have comendable material  for a good story but he or she might not have the heart to recognize his or her potential to spell it out for the whole world. To recognize this reality in us, is in itself, a gift already.

I know…

…that there really are a lot of standards and rules to follow in writing. Ironies are never scarce and an example of such is the presence of barriers and yardsticks that writers create for themselves. Choosing one particular voice cancels out another and yet the skill of a writer allows him to use two or more voices simultaneously as in poetry. There are loopholes in rules, and most importantly, the minute ones matter most and lead to bigger breaks. Barriers are ment to be crosed over, yardsticks ment to be broken when they cannot accomodate height and width anymore.

To become a writer means to overcome the mundane and the common…and that is forever possible. Such a task is difficult for seasoned writers to begin with and so much the more for students like me. The only thing we get in return is the fullfillment, the happiness, the joy in stretching human capability to the limit…and that alone, is more than enough.

…………………………………     ………………………………..    ……………………………..

When a writer writes, he simply does not write. He multi-tasks, studies, prays, explores the universe….all when a writer writes….more and more….

….and frankly, I’m looking forward to that by the day…the hour….the minute…



Let me ask you one question before I get into the thick of things:

Why do people write?

How do they write?

When do they write?

Do people write for mere entertainment or for history’s sake?

Do they throw a jumble of words unto paper by means of ink or a blank screen by means of computer keys and attempt to create something expressive if not entirely readable?

…And do these same people write only when inspiration strikes or when in their best interest, idleness is a hobby best preserved by giving it all of one’s attention?

It ALL leads to:

  • How a writer voices his thoughts in his or her own way and how particular voices in literature lend themselves to the unfolding of any story, poem and virtually any genre in literature.

  • Attempts at giving us subtle if not vivid descriptions of the times an author experiences which leads him to write in a given manner.

  • it hints at the readers to see beyond the paper, the ink, the screen, the computer keys

That is saying something since:

  1. The world is divided into writers and non-writers : everyone, regardless of social class, gender, religion and such HAVE VARYING WAYS OF LOOKING AT THINGS and interpreting things. It’s more commonly known as perspective. It can also be termed as individuality or even imagination.

  2. Different types of writing=different uses=different…..NO WAY! The possibility is great (ex. form, content, structure etc.) but writing is writing! That way, WRITING IS FLEXIBLE and hence I say, an epitome of versatility

  3. Writing means a lot more than it says. To discover that, is to discover the magic behind everything….as everything springs forth from a very big and constantly changing STORY.

  4. The form of a thing also speaks for the object. In this case, the form of poetry allows us the convenience of noticing what it is at a glance….and a resume too has its own unique form.

  5. Time is of the essence and the essence is of the moment…cliche. Poetry knows no time. Timelessness is a characteristic of good literature. Although writing is created at a specific time and some forms of it lay wasted, not all forms are. Most are even revived. Time only sweetens wine…and writing as well.

  6. There are many causes for writing and many standards that each person prizes for him or her to credit a work of literature as palatable–we have David Hume to thank for his On The Standard of Taste–and yet writing is criticized by a lot of people that are not well versed with the a said article’s subject matter. WRITING IS BOUND BY RULES TOO AND THE RULE OF RESPECT SHOULD BE A GOLDEN RULE LEST ONE FALLS FLAT ON HIS FACE FOR CRITICIZING A WORK HE OR SHE KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT.

Be that as it may, each and every living being on this planet should look forward to what literature can offer. Its doors are never closed and it always leads to someplace unexplored. Writing is not confined to words and thoughts and logic–writing is always a whole lot more.

Words have wings that never tire of unfurling. That’s a part of the magic. The rest lies in the reader, the writer, the You, the I and the We….and whoever, whatever, ALWAYS.

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