Author: J.J. Ireneo

• White Spider

  personal

  White Spider

  A white spider visited me in my room one night, and I wrote an introspective poem about it.

  a white spider visited me in my bedroom one night,
  it rested on the wall, facing me, challenging
  my character, judging, convincing me to kill it,
  plopped in my bed, I grabbed one of my alarm
  clocks to hammer it down with
  my gut harrowed, I got a message from the
  deepest realm inside of me
  
  to let it live
  I sighed, released the weapon, and apologized
  though, it never budged one bit at all
  so, I had a little chat with it:
  “What do you want? Okay, I’m sorry. Impulse,
  you know? Though, I do hope you’ve known of my
  childhood. Part of it was to venture into the
  bushes to catch the biggest and the most
  beautiful of your kind, then keep them inside
  a matchbox to get them ready for a fight. I know,
  it was bad, but that was one of the kids’
  games back then. Two colourful and strong
  spiders hanging on a stick together for an
  anticipated wrestling match. The first one to
  fall was the loser. Well, no one would dare to
  ask me if my spiders were up for it at all.
  They said I looked like someone who was too
  lame to participate as boys had invented it to begin with.
  I even assured them, “But my spiders
  are beautiful and strong and ready to fight!”
  Nah, they still wouldn’t believe it anyhow,
  and they would just shove me out
  of the way. I was probably six or seven years
  old, and all my spider escapades never came
  to fruition for once. So, I had no choice but to
  set them free instead.”
  
  It stayed still. I ranted on:
  “Are you here to protect me? Are you here to
  warn me about something? Are you here to
  amuse me, inspire me, comfort me because
  I’m all alone? Would you still be here once I
  wake up in the morning? If you’re still around,
  then I must have done something terrible in
  my life. But if you’re not, then I must say
  goodbye to some parts of my childhood.
  Deal? Cool.”
  
  I fell asleep right away.
  I woke up the next day.
  It vanished.
  
  Along with some parts of my childhood.
  This time around, it set me free.
  My innocence can now get excited and play.
  
  Beautiful and strong.
  Ready to fight.
  Again and again.
  

  December 9, 2025

  Childhood, Immigrant Story, Life, Life Lessons, Wisdom

  ---

• The Two Raging Men

  dreams

  The Two Raging Men

  This bizarre dream; I kind of get it somehow. What has God been trying to tell me anyway?

  two raging men brawling
  in the middle of my old street
  one unknown man
  another familiar with a damaged face
  regardless of the intensity
  and collapsing of characters
  the neighbourhood retreats
  into their quiet homes
  until the scene is empty
  in a broad daylight that feels
  no empathy, no pain
  the two raging men become
  stars of their own destiny
  
  a truck drives by in slow motion
  so as not to disturb the brawl
  and make an unnecessary commotion
  the unknown man climbs up onto
  the back of the truck
  the familiar with a damaged face
  drags himself along with every ounce
  of strength he has
  
  a distraction appears from out of nowhere
  it is my fearful soul running away
  from whatever it is cannot be determined
  but all I know is I am being chased
  while the madness still roars and bleeds
  from behind me
  as the two raging men muster their
  muscles and veins
  the truck screeches, roaring and howling
  like wolves at night
  if someone catches me I’m dead without
  rights
  
  I don’t know which one of the raging men is
  after me
  but I must scurry on and forget about how I
  get there
  I stumble into a bamboo gate along the way
  all of a sudden, I am at the dead end, it’s over
  
  So, I look back to face the two raging men;
  one unknown, one familiar with a damaged face,
  the truck laughs and cries at once, “Who are
  you running away from?”
  the two raging men are gone
  the brawl and all the eccentric acts;
  the broad daylight says it is all just made up.
  what’s happening to me is all a blur
  though, I have been hurt badly
  that’s for sure.
  
  the quiet neighbourhood’s heart whispers
  they believe my truth, and it’s driving them
  insane
  but to keep the norms and the mundane
  they must retreat and never see me again.

  December 6, 2025

  Dream, Immigrant Story, Life, Life Lessons, Oppression

  ---

• The Audience

  dreams

  The Audience

  Boy, have I been dreaming a lot about these bizarre things lately, huh? This is horror.

  the TV is loud,
  loud enough for the entire world to hear
  I say, turn it down! turn it down!
  no one hears me
  I find myself in a room full of
  awed audiences
  hyperventilating, paranoid,
  struggling to breathe
  in a whirl of utter confusion
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Turn it down!”
  my voice is drowned out
  by its hysteria
  
  so why can’t I turn it down myself?
  I’m afraid I would upset them
  chaos would erupt
  but what if I would warn them
  that it’s something more sinister than that
  that a monster or some kind of an evil entity
  hides behind doors
  throwing in whatever it has in mind
  just for the fun of fear or pure entertainment
  but they refuse to find out
  though some of them stay awake
  nah, who would even believe a fool like me?
  who would believe a nobody like me?
  
  and then one night, it starts to reveal itself
  the door creaks open… ajar…
  I hear it, I see it
  “Turn it down! Turn it down right now!”
  I warn in panic.
  alas, my voice vibrates around the room
  despite the amplified TV volume
  they shot me with a look of disdain
  others shout in my face, “You shut up!”
  while some ask me to leave
  I stand on my truth:
  look! take a look! the door has opened.
  something’s out there, and it’s going to
  kill us all.
  of course, they’re not convinced.
  yeah, who would even believe a fool like me?
  who would even believe a nobody like me?
  
  and the door opens wide in a swift wind blow
  they all scream in complete terror as they
  look for the closest exit windows
  yet, there’s no escaping anymore, fellas
  I’ve told you, it’s out there
  it has been out there
  watching you, feeling you
  mocking you, laughing at your fear
  
  it’s on door step, standing upside down
  it has a distinct face of a clown
  its eyes are red, its feet are long
  its lanky body is covered in a red and white suit,
  it’s smiling with a knowing it’s got them all
  and it says, “So what’s going on?”
  
  The devil says, “What’s going on?”
  I reply, “I’m tired of warning them. I gotta go now.”
  
  The devil laughs, “No, you can’t go! You’re the
  only one I want. ‘Cause you know how to fight
  me. Them? I’ve already got them a long time
  ago. They fear me ’cause they have no truths.
  But your truth is as sweet as honey, baby. As
  horrible and miserable as that scumbag
  horseradish. So, do you still want to live? Or
  would you rather die right here right now.”
  
  My response:
  I shut the TV off and smile at the devil.
  
  Silence.
  Darkness.
  Power.
  
  I walk out as calm as my soul can get.
  I am not one of the audiences anymore.
  I am not one of the audiences anymore.

  December 4, 2025

  Dream, Horror, Life, Life Lessons, Wisdom

  ---

• My niece says this, and it chills my spine

  dreams

  My niece says this, and it chills my spine

  Here’s another bizarre dream that I’m still desperate to reconcile with. What does it mean exactly?

  this house is a mess;
  stylish clothes, privileged devices,
  old toys that once upon a time
  made us all happy and shaped
  our hearts… cover the entire floor
  like a sad carpet that knows it all;
  stories, secrets, and memories.
  now, thwarted by time,
  abandoned by the nonsensical new
  though, we’re here lounging away
  it’s a lazy afternoon, with the
  powerful sun being clever to
  hide the truth
  for the soft breeze of wind
  is damp and cold
  
  I’m sleeping on the floor
  as my mother caresses my hair
  she, too, is on a reverie mood
  while grief entertains her
  with an uplifting song.
  my sister browses through
  her screen
  showing me the wonder of the
  world’s game
  she’s proud to have understood its
  mischief and corruption
  she plays it with a full demand
  of enthusiasm
  though, she knows her life
  is even more profound
  her students love her
  beyond her teachings and laughter
  she can even teach life itself
  to be kind
  no question, her legacy
  is a soul modelled out of
  angel’s wings and all the divine.
  
  my niece, on the other hand,
  is busy with her art work,
  she’s laying down on her
  stomach as she carefully
  paints an unconventional
  body with gentle yet assured strokes.
  she talks to herself, hums,
  gnashes her teeth, perks up
  with odd quirks, and chants
  something gibberish
  her hand never wavers
  her glinting eyes hardly blink
  like she wants us all to
  see right through her mind
  and the magic hidden
  in her innocence and cries
  
  the sun and the wind, however,
  play tricks on me
  am I the only one who can sense it
  or notice how uncanny they are?
  I get up and shut the window closed,
  startling my family whose
  exquisite and unique approach
  to life makes me envy them;
  how to make the most of it,
  how to relax in it,
  how to challenge it
  how to stay ahead of it
  how to be more curious about it
  
  I suddenly look for my own item
  that, in today’s day and age, is
  a necessity to survive
  my niece has it wrapped around
  her waist
  as she goes to pace around,
  reclaiming her muse to paint
  a new one, I notice it
  I say, “Darling, it’s auntie mommy’s. May
  I have it back?”
  She replies, “Auntie mommy is only around
  for two months. Oh, pity life. Oh, how must I
  pity life!”
  the haunting words of a nine-year-old.
  
  then there’s the sun.
  along with the wind.
  pity life, indeed.
  such a pity life.

  December 2, 2025

  Creativity, Dream, Immigrant Life, Life, Wisdom

  ---

• What’s the parade all about?

  dreams

  What’s the parade all about?

  God has been smacking me into bizarre dreams that I would never understand, and this is one of them. Life is great and absurd at the same time after all.

  the absurdity of this parade,
  I’ve caught myself marching with strangers,
  clueless, confused, like our lives depend on it,
  It’s a sweltering summer scorched
  around the unforgiving, dancing sun
  
  we’re supposed to chant something important,
  but I don’t remember the words at all,
  neither do the others,
  while some murmur inaudible phrases
  under their exhausted breaths,
  there’s a metre distance from each other,
  yet, it seems we have covered the entire city,
  even all over the dreary streets that no one cares about,
  all the way down sketchy and dangerous
  neighbourhoods that all citizens must stay away from,
  I don’t know what the occasion is,
  I’m sure it isn’t a protest either,
  not fighting for any social or global change at all;
  too extravagant, too involved, a waste of time
  because who’s going to listen anyway?
  all I know is I’m a part of the parade,
  I’m aware that the others also share
  the same sentiment
  
  amidst this peaceful going on interrupting
  the hustles and bustles of the metropolitan city,
  two men zoom by on their bicycles.
  One of them I distinctly recognize from a
  painful, traumatic, yet memorable past.
  the peculiar thing about it is, he has been in
  my thoughts; haunting, disintegrating, though
  full of life.
  I knew, somewhere down the road, we would
  meet again.
  there’s no fear anymore, just pure curiosity,
  concern, and perhaps even care.
  he still looks the same,
  he wears his hair long,
  a revolutionary artist whose brilliant mind
  always bounces around in full force.
  not renowned, but recognized here and there.
  words may not be his forte, intelligent discussions
  he can never engage in,
  because he’s more human, more authentic
  than me and his fake friends.
  he just likes to laugh over silly things,
  a compulsive liar just to fit in,
  flawed, easily tempered, indulges in two or three
  deadly sins,
  which all combined feeds his appetite for
  creating unique paintings.
  anyways, I blurt out a “pssst!” towards his
  direction as fast as I can for him to catch it,
  he’s the only one who can understand it;
  a coded native callout gesture.
  he instantaneously pauses, turns his head,
  looks around for a bit.
  he doesn’t see me,
  or maybe he doesn’t recognize me at all.
  I refuse to be seen as I nonchalantly march on
  with the others.
  how can he even recognize me?
  my beauty has already been corrupted away
  by time and cutting hardships,
  a lot of extremely ugly transformations;
  a testimony of survival and strength.
  must I be proud of it?
  not right now.
  not yet.
  
  once I’m back to myself a little, even just a little,
  then I’ll show up on his doorstep,
  so he pedals on to catch up with his friend,
  they make a quick swerve, then disappear
  into…
  his exiting life, I suppose.
  as for me? sweating, rambling in my head,
  praying, moving forward with strangers,
  arguing with my ego as to what to write about
  and what to reward myself with after.
  
  I wake up around noon, then boil and fry
  perogies for thanksgiving lunch. I pair it up
  with coffee as “Annie Hall” stimulates my
  mind.
  
  It is then I realize what the march is all about.
  Damn it, life is great and absurd all the time
  after all.
  
  It is great and absurd.
  All the time.
  After all.
  

  November 29, 2025

  Dream, Immigrant Story, Life Lessons, Man, Wisdom

  ---

• Doubts

  PERSONAL

  Yeah, Alright. I’m Sick.

  And I must stay sick.

  I’m sick,
  I have doubts all the time,
  though I believe in what I do,
  I truly love it,
  but the doubts keep me at ease,
  I may have ideas,
  but who even has time to change minds?
  adverts? AI? Quantum Physics?
  they change minds all the time,
  they launch curiosity and facts,
  they brainwash, they create societies,
  and yet here I am being so sick,
  having doubts despite the strong belief.
  
  Strong belief?
  Or ego?
  
  also, I’m watching new shows,
  with exaggerated characters
  and brilliant story lines that must
  run as chaotic as how my brain
  absorbs human connections
  that are overwhelmingly
  flawed and grotesque.
  
  but I must stay sick,
  and I must have all the doubts,
  it’s an undesirable adrenaline
  to keep going,
  as I remind myself:
  keep believing.
  
  I think it’s a great opportunity
  to stay sick and have all the doubts.
  Because the hard truth is
  no one out there will sit with me
  in silence.
  No matter how long I have devoted
  my life to this. No matter.
  All I have to do
  is to stay sick
  and caress all the doubts.
  Not to change minds.
  Not to plant any ideas.
  
  But just to stay sick and find meaning
  in the lasting doubts offered by
  either ego or a strong belief.
  

  November 27, 2025

  Creativity, Introspective Art, Madness, Philosophy, Poets

  ---

• One Mind

  dreams

  One Mind

  Music, writing songs, playing the piano saved my life. However, I’ve been slipping away from it all for the past few years now. Then it appeared in one of my bizarre dreams recently.

  God reminded me of a
  little spark that once saved my sanity,
  a grand piano without life,
  stood alone in the centre
  of a bright room,
  white walls, furniture shied away,
  it was home for music,
  a family’s sanctuary
  
  a sparrow flew inside
  to investigate the doldrums,
  its beak inspected the sheets,
  old compositions of my heart,
  it also demanded to browse
  through old notebooks
  where scribbled lyrics
  breathed out tunes and lullabies,
  it closed its eyes
  as it listened to the childhood cries
  
  my mother then appeared
  sat down on the stool and muttered,
  “Play this. I’ll sing it.”
  she handed me a piece,
  my vision was fading away,
  “No, Sorry,” the title was,
  the chord progression was off,
  it rearranged itself
  while I fought with air to last
  
  “That’s the wrong piece,” I panicked
  and scoured for its first and clear draft,
  she sat there quietly, oh, so patiently
  as I scrambled for truth hidden in my craft,
  the sparrow rested on her lap
  and fell asleep during the commotion,
  I succumbed to tears and snapped,
  “I no longer have devotion.”
  
  “Oh, but you must! It’s in your blood!”
  mother cried,
  words, phrases, poetry, stories
  are way more important;
  they can change the world.
  “You cannot change the world with those. Nobody can. They are just preposterous musings, causing you more harm.”
  
  the grand piano started playing itself,
  composing melodies we had never heard,
  the room went dark, the sparrow left,
  my mother forgave, then disappeared
  
  “No, Sorry,” the title was.
  I must get to know you again soon,
  once freedom danced in my North Star.
  God begged, “Be kind.”
  Yes, God.
  But please.
  Let me have only one mind.
  Just one mind.
  Only.
  One mind.

  November 25, 2025

  Creativity, Dream, Music, Stories, Writing

  ---

• The Night Before Laughter Died

  personal

  The Night Before Laughter Died

  Call me cheap… but I plunged into deep sadness when Diane Keaton passed. So I wrote this poem about it, and it’s what happened the night before I found out.

  the night before laughter died,
  it was going giddy in my mind,
  as I microwaved a plate of rice,
  and a smoked fish floating in oil,
  I saw it sipping some red wine
  
  in all these years, the night before laughter died,
  I worked on a dream to meet it alive,
  well, I failed, yet, the arts I kept with utmost delight,
  the lines, the jumps, the squeals, the screams; bliss,
  oh, larger than life that, each time,
  the stars, the sun, and the moon,
  would blow the world kisses
  
  the night before laughter died,
  I struggled to enjoy dinner,
  a raven sat outside my window,
  taunting me to light a candle,
  fear; nothing I could do
  
  the night before laughter died,
  I sought to escape from gloom,
  a reel, a tune, a phrase, an image,
  nothing could obliterate the doom,
  I wheezed, I coughed, I wrote,
  a piece of news would unravel soon
  
  the night before laughter died,
  I heard it one last time,
  “Oh well… here I am… still… you know… handling it… carrying on… squealing…”
  I replied, “Is this your way of saying goodbye?”
  “Oh, yes, it is!” it said unapologetically, “Isn’t it fabulous? Isn’t life so fabulous? Haha! Good God! Haaa…”
  
  the night before laughter died,
  I shrugged it off and went to bed,
  hoping for it to mess with me in a dream,
  yet, it stole my sleep away,
  the freedom in me screamed
  
  I woke up the next day, feeling refreshed,
  “Oh, pancakes! Pancakes!”
  what a relief.
  I turned reality back on, and there it was,
  silence and grief; fear bit me at last,
  but then again, I said to myself,
  “Oh, silly me… What are you even doing? Who are you? Shoo! Shoo! Enough of all this nonsense now… because… pancakes are in the house…. Holy cow!”
  
  Pancakes.
  Oh, wow.
  Laughter.
  Took its last bow.
  

  November 22, 2025

  Death, Dream, Grief, Life Lessons, Wisdom

  ---

• Make It Make Sense

  dreams

  Make it Make Sense

  Oh my goodness! This is yet another bizarre dream that must terrorize my Saturday afternoon nap… nobody is left with an essence anymore.

  a huddle with strangers,
  I lead a prayer,
  chanting away in my head,
  only the departed can hear,
  God sighs, angels giggle,
  the strangers get confused,
  a prayer for a benevolent emperor,
  who sits in a throne,
  floating on clouds,
  as the world mourns
  
  dewy, exquisite flowers,
  passing on as a gift,
  for whom are they?
  nobody knows, nobody dares,
  but they must travel,
  to grace dark and filthy places,
  to look for the right recipient,
  in the sea of the dead
  
  two nobody’s women,
  indulging in a serious meeting,
  one holds a piece of paper,
  the other listens,
  one asks, “would it be alright?”
  the other replies, “check its verity.”
  I walk by in silence,
  they give me a look of despair,
  I’m ready to go,
  no time for me to show,
  I’m beaten and dead inside,
  why must my mind still flow?
  
  nothing makes sense,
  nobody is left with an essence,
  a prayer has been delivered,
  the flowers must be surrendered,
  the two nobody’s women are silenced,
  this is the land of men
  
  meanwhile,
  the benevolent emperor is a hoax,
  God commands His troops,
  the angels laugh out loud,
  they snag me off the ground
  
  hear ye, hear ye!
  let us all pray,
  hear ye, hear ye!
  let us all pray.
  
  all I hear from confused strangers,
  who look for me and the wonder
  of verity
  
  nothing makes sense at all,
  nobody is left with an essence anymore.

  November 20, 2025

  Dream, Immigrant Life, Life, Life Lessons, Wisdom

  ---

• Cliché Already

  politics

  Cliché Already

  This political madness and all the ignorant yapping around to create more chaos… I would like to ask humanity, how’s your moral conscience doing?

  Imagine holding vigils and worshipping assassinated men whose ideologies and politics are solely rooted from deep hate and ridiculous rage?
  Yet, no one cares about innocent school children whose lives get taken away on random, sunny days.
  No one cares about hard working citizens whose rights are stripped off under mischievous guises and aberrant commands.
  
  politics has now become superior to laws,
  justice becomes a word amounting to nothing,
  selling out fear, testing out obedience,
  killed humanity’s voice; silence rampages on to kill,
  hope, they say, is all we have,
  who is hope?
  what is hope?
  where is hope?
  how powerful is hope?
  when is hope found?
  just uttering the word alone makes me sick to my stomach,
  say it over and over again, and you start to doubt its meaning,
  or worse, you forget about it at once.
  
  hope is weak,
  hope is an illusion,
  hope keeps us away from the truth,
  so then how do we get out of this?
  
  never,
  though, time may intervene,
  time has its own quirks and tricks,
  time forces it to cool down,
  time designs butterfly effects to face the consequences at the end of the tunnel,
  time tears down towers and empires,
  time writes history,
  time has its beginnings and endings,
  time rebuilds,
  time clocks on forward,
  until…
  … next time…
  it’s back to terrorize again.
  
  Bad ideologies, corrupt politics; religions of the sick and the power-hungry.
  
  Hope no more.
  Time hurries on.

  November 18, 2025

  Corrupt Government, Hope, Life, Rotten Politics, Time

  ---

• So I’m Gone

  personal

  So I’m Gone

  I’m obsessed with death. It’s the first and last thing I can think of every single day. I wonder a lot about it, and my curiosity just keeps on firing up. So I wrote yet another “death” piece just to suffice this “morbid fantasy”.

  What happens after I die?
  This is the question
  that confronts me
  each time I wake up.
  Also, this question;
  slaps me out of worries and concerns,
  pushes me to move on from hurt,
  slips me into rabbit holes of my own identity,
  shoves me away from the worldly,
  cues me in to the magic of time.
  
  So I’m gone.
  Into an unknown realm.
  Mind celebrities even make up stories
  about how surreal yet enchanting it is
  just to comfort the living.
  Where grief is answered with full love.
  Where a reunion with passed loved ones
  is assured.
  Where the past, the present, and the future
  meet up.
  Where mystery becomes truth.
  Where truth becomes judgment.
  Where judgment weighs hearts and souls.
  Where hearts and souls finally understand
  their purpose.
  Where purpose rests.
  All at last.
  
  So I’m gone.
  Into an unknown realm.
  My poetry and stories hopefully will live on;
  to guide my niece through this insane world,
  for my loved ones to understand my absence more,
  to stand up for my dignity and integrity to
  those who have done me wrong,
  for old friends who will suddenly appreciate
  my helping hand and my parting words,
  for those whose tears poured over
  my cutting punch lines,
  for old bosses and colleagues
  who beat me up good,
  for peers who had seen my value,
  for evil eyes who still work in the dark
  to harm my name,
  for churches that would defy my beliefs,
  for students who would study life
  through my perspectives.
  
  I was:
  an oddball
  a misfit
  a lone wolf
  a curious munchkin
  a seeker of silence
  a fighter
  a survivor
  a vagabond
  
  I was homeless.
  Yet, I lived a full and colourful life.
  I worked hard down to the last muscle
  of my strength.
  I tirelessly wrote since I was a little girl
  until I knew it was time to say goodbye.
  I failed many times.
  I won hearts many times.
  I cried and laughed over my
  inhibitions many times.
  I held back.
  I hid away.
  I never had a real name.
  I never knew who I was.
  
  So what really happens after I die?
  I’m gone.
  Just gone.
  Gone forever.
  With only this to leave behind.
  
  Though, I may let you know
  how it goes in the
  unknown realm
  once in a while.
  
  Through a stranger
  born after my time.

  November 15, 2025

  Death, Identity, Immigrant Story, Life, Life Lessons

  ---

• Corpses at a Work Party

  humanity

  Corpses at a Work Party

  My big boss throws parties once in a while where awards and certificates are also given to the deserved few. During my first attendance, something inside of me had ignited. It was a brutal awakening that I could not shake off in any way… leading me to write this poem.

  “Welcome to your funeral!”
  the boss proclaims,
  his board members
  grin at us
  like the grim reapers
  as we enter.
  
  A bountiful feast awaits.
  scrumptious meals;
  dishes and drinks
  we have never
  heard of before,
  colourful desserts with
  odd shapes and designs,
  arresting mood,
  enticing celebration.
  
  Even tables and chairs
  look inviting.
  All of a sudden,
  their meaning extends
  towards our existence.
  
  “Welcome to your funeral!”
  the boss proclaims again.
  We take our spots,
  exchange murmurs,
  crack up a little,
  introduce ourselves to each other,
  ponder on our time
  as we wait for the
  ceremony.
  
  Some receive monetary awards,
  others revel in appreciation certificates,
  the newbies smile and nod,
  the forgotten wince and tear up a bit.
  Whereas, I, observing and feeling,
  am detached from what I’m seeing.
  Must I owe them my life
  for surviving?
  Haven’t they heard what
  the boss has proclaimed?
  
  “Welcome to your funeral!”
  Or is it just my insanity
  playing tricks on me
  to stay in reality.
  
  Our names are carved
  in tombstones.
  The drinks, the dishes, the desserts
  are poisons.
  There are no rewards without
  a life sacrifice.
  There are no certificates without
  blood shedding.
  There are no celebrations without
  the devil’s fights.
  There are no bosses and grim reapers without
  the ignorant begging.
  
  I look at us;
  gobbling down
  the main dishes, the drinks, the desserts.
  the newbies, the forgotten, the awardees
  go home everyday
  as corpses
  to their families,
  to their lone shelters,
  to life
  that had already forewarned
  about its cruelty
  the moment we greeted
  our first day.
  
  Welcome to your funeral.
  Welcome to your funeral.
  It is what it is.
  The sad things is,
  no one grieves.
  

  November 13, 2025

  Death, Immigrant Challenges, Immigrant Story, Life, Life Lessons

  ---

• Sage

  personal

  Sage

  I wrote this for my nine-year-old niece, Sage. The only child in my life who I love so much. I’m scared, so scared, for her to see and know more about the world.

  Love amplifies its meaning in full
  like;
  how God saves me time and time again,
  how all beautiful creatures exist together
  under the sun, under the moonlight, in the vast oceans,
  how life riddles are answered with humour and heart,
  how soul yearnings find joy and comfort in the arms of arts,
  how symphonies delight my reveries,
  how the sound of rain heals my pains,
  how my once frail mortality now runs like a
  mystical chariot to get to my desired destination,
  how great Philosophies harmonize with the
  most stunning cymatics,
  how prayers sing to keep me moving to
  accomplish something wonderful,
  how lovely encounters make me excited
  about humanity,
  how kindred spirits in animals morph into
  angels to wake me up,
  how amazing stories written by the stars
  find their way into the wounded,
  how classic poetry resonates with a
  timeless world,
  how my weaknesses have shown me
  their strengths,
  how kind miracles surprise me while
  struggling to escape nightmares,
  how I define my worth, and how my worth defines me,
  how my madness creeps into words to
  shape a legacy,
  how solitude keeps my creative sparks
  warm in winter,
  how family becomes the greatest story ever told,
  how home sings the happiest tunes
  ever composed.
  
  like;
  the Sage who captures
  my heart, my mind, my spirit
  in the name of the Lord.

  November 11, 2025

  Life, Life Lessons, Muse, Niece, Unconditional Love

  ---

• White Countries

  humanity

  White Countries

  Hey! Would you turn your societies and cultures into “white”? Now, here’s what a person of colour would say to that.

  White countries!
  
  go ahead
  turn your societies and cultures
  into white
  the most glistening white
  they can ever get
  make sure all corners
  down to agricultures,
  garments, entertainment,
  gadgets, livelihoods
  must fall under
  the white codes,
  laws and regulations
  
  things you enjoy,
  from food to travels,
  must be stamped
  white codes only.
  therefore, you are
  forbidden to visit
  communities and countries
  that glow with colours,
  where rainbows are
  free to appear,
  where different skin tones
  are celebrated,
  where vibrant life
  happens and erupts
  with joy and acceptance
  
  you want white countries?
  yes, sure, you can have them!
  fight for them, fight,
  on behalf of your
  isolated, ignorant, arrogant
  white souls
  tarnished by
  beautiful colours!
  proclaimed by
  your dim-witted
  teachings
  
  make sure you stay
  in your white lands
  labor on your own white soils
  do not even dare
  DO NOT EVEN DARE!
  to steal colours’ ideas away
  and make them your own
  do not even attempt
  to get on a plane
  to unwind in Asia,
  Africa, the Caribbeans
  do not consume
  products that originated
  from colourful lands,
  made by colourful hands
  conceived by colourful minds
  DO NOT EVEN DARE!
  
  as it does not align
  with white codes
  as you shall break
  white laws and regulations
  as it is against your
  white countries’
  constitutions
  
  so be content
  stay in your white countries
  stay isolated
  stay ignorant
  stay arrogant
  no beautiful colours
  praise you
  no free rainbows
  acknowledge you
  no colourful societies and cultures
  want to be like you
  
  you’re depressing and bland
  angry, sold souls
  you are your own evil
  you are your own enemy
  you hail your superiority?
  how about you
  ostracizing yourself
  from humanity?
  
  White countries!
  go ahead
  turn your societies and cultures
  into white
  the most glistening white
  they can ever get
  
  but don’t you ever
  DARE!
  seek beautiful colours
  to fill the voids
  creeping into your
  depressing lands!
  
  don’t you ever
  dare.
  
  

  November 8, 2025

  Discrimination, Immigrant Challenges, Life Today, Ostracized Countries, White Countries

  ---

• Humanity: Are We All Here?

  humanity

  Humanity: Are We All Here?

  I wrote this while I was feeling numb, yet somehow I managed to say the right things without any thought process whatsoever at all. Does that make sense?

  Humanity, at last!
  whose beauty is admired
  heart moves in good faith
  acts; empathy, the north star
  
  Anything evil is shunned
  violent uniformed men
  whose weapons always
  flaunt on air
  powerless,
  down on their
  wounded knees
  
  Corrupt leaders;
  maggots, vultures,
  criminals!
  soulless fixtures
  whose end
  shall be as tragic
  as the terrors and horrors
  of days and nights
  they have inflicted upon
  the innocent
  across the lands
  
  Humanity sees,
  hears, feels, lives through
  betrayals, atrocities
  now they hold on
  to their power
  they understand
  the true meaning
  of their existence
  
  Oh, but they must
  stop engaging,
  stop saluting,
  stop bowing,
  stop listening,
  stop applauding,
  stop praising,
  stop acknowledging,
  stop participating
  for
  
  maggots
  vultures
  criminals
  
  they
  do not have
  a place
  in the heart
  of humanity
  do not deserve
  their time
  and energy
  do not own
  their names
  
  Humanity fights
  for each other’s
  common good,
  protecting each other’s
  faiths,
  raising each other’s
  children,
  employing each other’s
  brothers and sisters,
  learning each other’s
  songs and dances,
  opening their minds
  to each other’s
  just and humane
  ideologies,
  appreciating each other’s
  unique languages,
  participating in
  each other’s cultures,
  holding each other’s
  hands,
  reading each other’s
  literature and poetry,
  comforting each other
  in times of need,
  living, surviving,
  growing, evolving,
  progressing
  together
  
  Together.
  Humanity is
  as strong as the power
  of the universe.
  Once together,
  nothing is broken,
  no one is broken,
  no land is broken.
  
  Humanity at last.
  Humanity at last.

  November 1, 2025

  Humanity, Kindness, Life, Life Lessons, Wisdom

  ---

• Candle in Hand

  humanity

  Candle in Hand

  A random encounter with a “supposed” witch during a grocery run after work. Was it a “divine nudge… or simply an assumption?”

  She barges in with a black candle in hand,
  sits right behind me, pats my head lightly.
  Like me, her skin color is like a solar flare,
  ready to burn, ready to rage, ready to share.
  
  She chants away in her own dialect.
  Impassioned words, cruelty I cannot detect.
  Every syllable sounds like a gun fire.
  I reckon she’s on the phone, lambasting a
  blood line.
  
  Digital music blasting into my ears,
  drifting away as she’s too loud to bear.
  I get off the bus, she jumps off after me.
  She stands in my space, eyes gazing away.
  
  Her ears jolt up in the evening mist.
  They’re free, they’re clear, I’ve caught the
  twist.
  
  She feels my curiosity, triggering her fancy.
  Once again, the impassioned words
  explode out of her black candle days.
  
  As we wait to cross yet another street,
  she blasts out profound words just for me
  to notice her presence,
  “They don’t know how to read and
  understand!”
  One more time, make it louder, madam,
  “They don’t know how to read and
  understand!”
  I say, “Time to cross the street now.”
  She paces down after me, still raving on,
  with a trembling soul hidden in her
  ingenius scorns.
  
  She suddenly disappears, then God
  whispers in my ear, “You’re shielded, don’t
  worry about her voodoo trick.”
  I freeze, my heart races, I pray,
  “God, a new perspective would be okay.”
  
  So I go on to get my grocery run done.
  I talk to a friend who says, “All good minds
  are gone.”
  The strange lady’s hex turns into the most
  beautiful eagle,
  I release it into a world where wonders
  grow.
  
  She was not alone, there were thousands
  trapped in her.
  A prison of despair, causing her to fight
  back out of fear.
  The eagle delivers her the message,
  “Quit it. It’s not going to work on her. She’s
  not alone, too. Lest you forget.”
  She can also barge in with a candle in hand,
  only her goal is to save the innocent.
  
  Yes, this is how I barge in with a
  candle in hand.
  To save the innocent.

  November 1, 2025

  God, Identity, Immigrant Story, Life, Witchcraft

  ---

• What Is This? Where Is This?

  dreams

  What is this? Where is this?

  I have been documenting all my “bizarre” dreams, and this is one of them. Normally, I experience them during Saturday afternoon naps.

  What is this? Where is this?
  There’s a stove right
  behind my head bed.
  A plastic container sits
  on top of it; full of boiling water.
  “What is happening? What have you done, mother?”
  
  “The plastic container must be stronger
  than a cauldron,” my sister says.
  I panic to shut the stove as the room is
  now soaked in hot steam.
  The problem is, the bed is way too high,
  I can’t reach.
  My brave sister switches it off like magic.
  
  What is this? Where is this?
  I’m checking on rooms to see if they’re up to par.
  Not about cleanliness or sanitation assignment.
  Just about their existence. Are they
  well behaved without rails and bars?
  There’s a supervisor following me around;
  a cousin with an instinct and an eye.
  I run up the stairs of an archaic apartment,
  then disappear into a door leading into a
  tidy, dim kitchen.
  Where an old cousin washes dishes;
  stoic and unapologetic.
  I ask her, “You’ve been here all this time,
  and yet you have never dared to visit –?”
  My rage gets intercepted with a knock and
  a voice, “You there?”
  The old cousin looks out her small window
  and warns, “Get down!”
  We slump down on the floor, locked in an
  embrace. Then she whispers, “Whatever
  happens, do not move, do not even breathe.”
  The voice gets closer, humming —
  Humming on!
  
  Come and get me;
  what is this? where is this?
  Another new piece is born.
  
  Never explain. Simply shut it off.
  Stop living. In a desperate world.
  Stay in your own bubble
  and keep your goings on and
  whereabouts in check.
  Hide and breathe in silence,
  create pieces of magic.
  
  I am weak, it’s all I can do.
  My head bed does not even know
  who I am and how I show
  my heart, my spirit
  lost to time in throes.
  But here I am, oh, yes, here I am.
  Still in flow.
  In my own mystery that glows.
  God, have mercy on my soul.
  When pieces steam up hot enough,
  it’s time to go.
  
  What is this? Where is this?
  Nobody knows.

  October 30, 2025

  Bizarre, Dream, Immigrant Life, Life, Life Lessons

  ---

• Bust!

  politics

  Bust!

  t’s not hate, it’s ultimate rage! Politics is a clown — a ghoulish-faced numbskull!

  Tongues locked; keys destroyed
  Sin handcuffed; history cursed
  Pens imprisoned; weapons burned
  Faith killed; world’s blood poured

  Men’s rules; wild white
  Anarchy or isolation?
  The right; evil is born
  The irony of it all
  Humanity mourns
  
  Is murdered by a playbook
  ending in defeat.
  Marked across all continents.
  When will they ever learn?
  Crushed power, retrieved riches
  Exiled authorities, vanished by time
  Vomited out by survivors
  and compassion without a dime.
  
  Politics is a clown
  a ghoulish-faced numbskull
  Gold and thrones; stolen
  Fools! Hand the world over
  It’s all they want.
  Huh! Huh! Huh!
  All yours, twats!
  All yours! All yours!
  I’m out of this swamp
  long before dawn
  Harp sounds sharp
  
  Ordered to fear through guises
  Believers; narrow minds
  Never seen their own backyards
  Never heard a lion’s growl
  calling out their names.
  Fighters; vulnerable souls
  Felt hearts, understood the scrolls
  Tired of losing the rose and controls
  Down on grounds and all over floors!
  
  I told you so!
  Huh! Huh! Huh!
  
  Keys destroyed.
  History cursed.
  Weapons burned.
  World’s blood poured.
  
  Never ending, a new time
  arises again and again.
  New faces, same devils
  play the darkest game.
  Outwitting the last,
  amplifying the old blueprints,
  dumbing down and threatening
  citizens.
  
  Of the world that must
  care of their own territories.
  Now facing harsh realities.
  Obliterate names from statistics.
  
  Or–
  
  Sacrifice; create keys.
  Write in war zones; create history.
  Sing to drown out bombs; create weapons.
  Shield each other; create a world of our
  own.

  October 28, 2025

  Immigrant Story, Life Lessons, Oppression, Rotten Politics, White

  ---

• What’s Your Worth?

  Dreams

  What’s Your Worth?

  One Saturday afternoon nap flew me into this bizarre dream.

  My father, a hero
  picked me up
  from the land
  I was lost in.
  He drove a
  new tricycle
  that could
  almost fly.
  We zoomed
  by trenches,
  zinged through
  angry trees,
  zigzagged down
  rough roads
  by a scintillating
  lake that almost
  lured us into
  an untimely
  end.

  I wondered why
  it was just the
  two of us.
  He said not to
  worry as he would
  pick up my sister
  half way.
  Confused; my
  sister was
  safe and happy
  back home.
  I missed her.
  He missed her, too.
  But the trip
  must go on,
  a trip towards
  a destination
  that was only
  meant for me.
  
  We arrived in
  a provincial town,
  foreign to me.
  He said I must
  wait patiently
  for his
  return as he
  was on his way
  to pick up
  my sister.
  I trusted him,
  of course.
  But I wondered
  where the trip
  would end though.
  
  Where exactly?
  And where was I?
  
  He said he
  struggled really
  hard to get there.
  There were
  impossible obstacles
  along the way.
  Natural disasters,
  creepy woods,
  broken roads.
  Until he found
  his place and
  made it his own.
  For the first time,
  he rose to
  prominence
  without doing
  anything heroic
  at all.
  Just his
  heart and soul.
  
  So I lingered
  around there
  to wait.
  I spotted shacks
  of shops nearby,
  ancient houses
  made of bamboos;
  in one of them a box
  of 80s television was
  on, with a hazy
  reception.
  Some local men
  sauntered by,
  unbothered,
  dressed in 80s
  fashion.
  
  I got hungry.
  I had three
  food items
  stuffed in a
  weird basket.
  In one translucent
  box was a croissant;
  painted on it was
  a face of an
  unknown woman.
  In the other was
  something that
  was not edible.
  I could not eat it
  or I would die.
  Then I had
  fried meat;
  it was a bird
  inside a turtle shell,
  and it was supposed
  to be good, and I
  wondered how it
  got there since I
  could never eat
  meat at all.
  
  So I waited
  and waited
  —
  
  A local bus
  turned up
  in a blink of
  an eye,
  transporting
  school kids.
  They were
  jolly and hyped up
  to get home.
  Though I noticed
  the boys
  swooped out
  from inside
  and the girls
  were riding
  on the
  vehicle’s exterior,
  yet they still
  managed to
  get home
  unharmed
  unscratched,
  relieved and happy.
  I was about to
  scold the driver
  but something
  in me went numb.
  
  Then I succumbed
  to hunger.
  A group of sweet delicacy
  merchants
  occupied the
  Main Street.
  I had not even
  a cent on me
  until my father
  arrived.
  So I wandered
  around to
  check it all out;
  one busy lady
  caught my eye.
  She would simply
  swing by to grab
  anything she liked
  and the merchants
  would just shrug
  it off and say,
  “Okay.”
  
  I thought to myself,
  “How is that okay?”
  
  I waited and waited
  some more.
  Until reality
  brought me back.
  
  From wherever I was.
  From losing my father again.
  From a treacherous trip.
  From the strangest town
  I had ever been to.
  
  Somewhere, someday,
  I will understand it.
  
  But what if I won’t?
  
  Well, as my guide says,
  “All humans are going
  to die not knowing their
  worth.”
  
  Now, how I wish
  my father did.
  
  I wish he did.

  October 25, 2025

  Adventure in a Dream, Death, Immigrant Challenges, Immigrant Story, Life Lessons

  ---

• Wars!

  politics

  Wars!

  I wrote this poem out of rage.

  Wars!
  endless wars
  of all nonsense
  concocted by
  idiocy
  acted upon by
  the cowardly
  
  Wars!
  for history’s sake
  a legacy of death
  as power wanes
  as power eludes
  the answer
  to make themselves
  known
  
  Wars!
  politics of poor minds
  religion of the hungry ego
  philosophy of weak character
  they fire
  they kill
  they laugh
  only to meet
  their tragic endings
  in front of both
  enemies and friends
  
  Wars!
  evil chaos to
  reshape society,
  they say
  when humanity
  is fed everyday
  full, information
  to be consumed
  to reshape minds
  and betray souls
  trapped in
  ignorant
  illusion
  
  Wars!
  the pride of
  the brave,
  they say
  the medals of
  honor
  so legendary
  for what?
  for what?
  oh, what business
  is most profitable
  blood
  human decay
  orphans
  suffering
  a spiteful end
  
  Wars!
  life
  pointless
  heartless
  terror of
  greed
  fame
  power
  
  Wars!
  of world leaders
  of societies
  behind the curtains
  dressed in suits
  stinky breaths
  ugly, PIGS!
  spit, spit, spit
  pits are ready
  

  October 23, 2025

  Evil World Leaders, Rotten Politics, The Business of War, Wars, World Wars

  ---

• Enough of Sleep

  dreams

  Enough of Sleep

  This poem snuck out from a dream during my afternoon nap. Weird.

  Enough of sleep
  for her
  No more lounging
  for tears
  
  Living for nothing
  empty the jars
  Sin, no one is pure
  
  Opening the mind
  finding the right key
  meeting an unknown
  
  Standing behind me
  stout, ugly
  silhouetted identity
  
  A bright diner
  floating in the abyss
  Joy, laugh until dawn
  
  Crowd… lost…
  swarming in from
  nowhere
  
  Entertainment
  blasts on, stimulating
  more grief, escape
  
  From above
  witnessing the grand
  fear pushes me back
  
  A white woman
  stands behind,
  bearing her class
  
  Leading the way
  floating down
  a flight of stairs
  
  Into the crowd
  roaring, on high
  suddenly dismissed
  
  Up I go
  A sneak, a bull
  Only to find
  
  Three broken doors
  with one catching
  my hand on hold
  while the other two
  creak and groan
  
  Sin more
  dream more
  God is asleep
  Nothing to hide
  Nothing to keep
  
  Enough of sleep
  for her
  
  No more lounging
  for tears

  October 21, 2025

  Health, Immigrant Challenges, Life in a Dream, Rest, Sickness

  ---

• Haunting Wisdom We Don’t Care About

  ramblings

  Haunting Wisdom We Don’t Care About

  I wrote this when “automatic writing” cocooned me up: we get ill out of all the stupidest things.

  The world lied to you at birth.
  Authenticity is the best fashion.
  Be stoic. Be ethereal.
  Stay obsessed with one creative hobby. It will move your life in a million ways.
  Everyone practices witchcraft everyday. They’re just not aware of it.
  Do not hope. Move.
  Want to make a dream come true? Invent a character.
  Words are not what they seem. They are layers of lies and truths.
  
  A man’s story begins at night.
  Humans are all walking dead creatures.
  Being a naturalist is never easy.
  Never fear death. For the world has already ended at the turn of the century. No humanity is left anymore.
  God holds your purpose captive. Persuade Him to reveal it to you.
  Speak like you’re on a deathbed.
  Two entities destroy the spirit of humanity everyday: politics and religions.
  We are not designed to know endings. Even our own.
  
  Sometimes hearts whisper lies.
  Stoicism is an emotion; the most powerful there is.
  Treat life as a baby. On the same token, treat life as both a friend and an enemy, certainly not a family.
  Sense of wonder is lost.
  Time is dying.
  Do you ever talk? How do you talk? Do you talk with your thoughts? Apparently, it’s the hardest thing to do.
  There is no ladder to climb on, only a mindset.
  Your eyes are not supposed to see. Your ears are not supposed to hear. Skin is always supposed to be color blind.
  
  Music is the truth.
  You don’t create your own life. That’s society’s job. You’re being primed all the time. You’re just in denial.
  You’ll find out soon enough that the smartest people you know are legitimately ignorant.
  High isn’t up there. High is left on the ground, harmless and careful. It’s a way to trespass death.
  Shut up and live.
  The present does not exist anymore.
  Memories are not nostalgic. They are feelings that have hurt you, joyful or sad. Memory is simply a euphemism for grief.
  “Keep me” is what you must tell yourself all the time.
  
  “I’m free” is always the most difficult to say.
  Do your heart a favour; stop begging. 
  The best trip of a lifetime is sitting alone in your room for as long as you can. 
  There’s no dream without validation.
  The best comfort is confidence with a little bit of arrogance.
  Love pays.
  As days go on, the mind gets cheaper.
  Strength does not mean you’ve survived. It will always be there testing you out.
  
  Caring can be dangerous.
  Walk out there blindfolded.
  You’re fine. You just make it complicated to make life interesting.
  You don’t seek God. God seeks you. And this is the saddest truth.
  Let go of who you believe you are. It’s not you. It’s borrowed.
  Invent a mind that keeps you from walking out of doors. Because modesty is an ally. Never let them know.
  Having wealth is a great opportunity to learn deeper about yourself.
  Wealth does not change you. You change its value.
  
  Everything is superficial. Only trust your intuition, though intuition is always betrayed.
  Wealth gives us wisdom. It opens our eyes to the truth, the elusive truth. The only problem is we’ll never truly know which one it is above all.
  People give each other trauma all the time. It’s what guides them through. Otherwise, there’s nothing to fight for.
  God fights for us every second. Yet we fight back.
  We get ill out of all the stupidest things.
  
  We get ill out of all the stupidest things.
  Everyday.

  October 18, 2025

  Humanity, Life Lessons, Society, Stupidity, Wisdom

  ---

• Filipino Pride

  humanity

  Filipino Pride

  I love being Filipino. Proud of my blood. However, confronting truth is also a pain.

  A true Filipino, you say?
  You’ve gotta talk to me
  ‘cause I’m ready to party!
  
  I’ve got no house
  but I’ve got a home
  a close-knit bond
  that my heart owns
  I’ve learned to smile
  and laugh that zones
  them out into a life
  milestone
  
  Just imagine going
  through natural
  disasters
  yet there I am
  praying hard
  hoping and coping
  to recover
  while all the while
  humor is unbothered
  my family and I
  love makes me
  feel like we can live
  forever
  
  Oops. I’ve gotta go
  somewhere
  to make life better
  though nostalgia
  loneliness and pain
  would shatter
  me to extremes
  yet I’ve got dreams
  for my loved ones
  so they won’t
  have to suffer
  from scarcity
  while bouncing
  and prancing
  through the
  wild home city
  of our forefathers
  
  Though they’re okay
  in every way
  I’m just too
  ambitious
  and adventurous
  greedy. Huh!
  So what? 
  Pain is gain
  hard work
  is a win
  sweats and bloods
  life spins
  into a wheel
  of fortune
  under my name
  
  The family name
  ready to sacrifice
  the smiles
  the laughs
  even God’s advice
  
  Remember, once the
  trees turn greener
  rains keep on
  pouring
  they don’t 
  wither
  Ah. It’s fine.
  I can be a 
  loner
  here I am
  making a fool
  out of myself
  betraying my
  education
  darn sinner
  
  I’ve learned
  to stand up for
  my DNA
  If race is their
  problem then
  they’ve never
  had a good day
  such misery
  I’m sorry
  for how society
  has taught them
  to hate and cuss
  still clinging
  on to the past
  all I know
  for sure
  all I know
  for sure
  it all starts 
  somewhere
  
  Somewhere
  fast!
  
  I suppose
  they’ve never
  had a home to
  speak of
  a family to
  pray with
  and love
  they’ve been
  shoved
  off.
  
  So let me see
  what I can do
  can I show you
  what love
  means
  and your
  best virtue?
  
  I can let you
  into my home
  if you need
  shelter
  I can also feed you
  an abundant
  dinner
  I can sing
  a lovely song
  to heal your
  heart a little
  I can tell you
  inspiring
  stories
  to make you
  feel a lot
  better
  
  A true Filipino, you say?
  You’ve gotta talk to me
  if you’re  ready to party!
  Talk to me
  talk to me
  only
  if you’re
  ready.
  To be in
  a real
  life party.

  October 16, 2025

  Being Filipino, Filipino Challenge, Filipinos in Canada, Immigrant Story, Life of a Filipino

  ---

• The Choice that Sounds like a Threat

  Ramblings

  The Choice that Sounds like a Threat

  Nonsense rambling. Allow me. “Why have we imprisoned ourselves like this? It’s outrageously horrible!”

  Work is a choice. A choice that we’re too naive to understand. A choice that sounds like a threat. A choice that stands alongside fear. We must work to survive. It makes us discover our strengths and weaknesses. We work to live and die. We work with one goal, and one major goal only. We work to fight ‘against’ our dignity and moral principles. It’s how we were programmed. Either it holds us back or moves us forward, depending on its nature. Is it really something that we love to do? Is it our dream job? Is it rewarding and fulfilling?

  But what if you are left with no choice, then you end up working at a fast food place, a retail store, or in the hospitality industry? Or any customer service job that ‘requires’ you to forget your professional aspirations and even your educational background. In most cases, it may also drive you to dim your ‘joyful light’ due to the existing toxicity that is often not addressed. Would you still be able to recognize yourself after you got fired, handed in your resignation, or simply stomped out of there without looking back?

  I bet not. You are never the same person anymore. Pieces of you have checked out on their own. While there are some new ones swirling around that you must welcome in now. Either positive or negative, it matters a great deal. Why? Because it will carry you along for the rest of your life. It will change you. It will test your character. It will test your faith in yourself. Then you get to ask yourself a pivotal question, “How much trust do I still have left in me?” Or, “How much do I trust myself now?” Would you still thrive? Would you still try again? Would you fight? My truth? Yes, I still thrived. Yes I still tried again. But no, I was always afraid to fight… back!

  It’s all a game. A ‘how can I make it through this day’ game. A new set of challenges is thrown in your face each time. You better get your strengths ready. Know your cards. Know your allies and enemies. Know your bosses. They will tell you who they are in the first three days alone. You can see glimpses of truths in their eyes, actions and words. Pay attention. Not one soul in that small circle is genuine. I don’t want to sound bitter, judgmental and pessimistic. However, you must accept the harsh reality of it all. That it’s all just a game, and nothing else but.
  
  A game.
  
  Too abrupt, but… does it make sense, though?

  October 14, 2025

  Labor, Life or Death, Society and Work Toxicity, Survival, Work

  ---

• Let Me Tell You a Story

  personal

  Let Me Tell You a Story

  I wrote this when I hit rock bottom while I was living in Edmonton. When God pushes you out of a place that is never meant for you after all.

  Let me tell you a story about this one lady. Who’s already in her mid-forties. She doesn’t know where her life is going. She idles. She hops from one place to another. She believes her life is full of junk. She doesn’t have a purpose. Yet, she believes she’s on a mission. Though one thing I know for certain. It isn’t over yet. It isn’t over yet. As long as she keeps on moving. Moving forward. Trying. Doing. Dreaming. Hoping. It isn’t over yet.

  Let me tell you a story about this one lady. Who’s already in her mid-forties. Who kept on returning to a place she once called home. And each return became a painful test of her faith. A painful test of her character. A painful test of courage. Until during her last return, she had finally reconciled with the truth. It was never a home after all. It was a home for more self-discovery. Her faith, her character, her courage only rose up high. Time to let go. Time to let go. She went home to her heart, mind, and spirit. As this place has now become a memory slide.

  Let me tell you a story about this one lady. Who caught the evil eyes around in a place she once called home. The evil eyes who wished her harm. And the harm cost her everything. Everything. She lost her job. And no one dared to give her a chance. She fell ill. She was on the verge of losing it all. Even if she found a job, people would treat her badly. And so she would end up quitting. They found a way to make her disappear. Until one early morning, her father descended from heaven to appear in her dream. To send her a message. And as soon as she woke up, she made a bold decision. Clarity made her act fast. And things fell into place at once. Like magic. She was out of there. At last. 

  October 11, 2025

  Challenges, Immigrant in Canada, Immigrant Story, Life Lessons, Strength

  ---

• The Race

  humanity

  The Race

  This prose was inspired by the chaos I would experience at work from time to time.

  Catching my breath to run away and move on. To accomplish a day. I spot a flock of pigeons greeting me with a swift candor, then they fly away.
  
  A ghastly whistle directs at me, with a series of orders. I pinch my skin, yes, indeed, I am human, not a machine. I am told that I am the best candidate for a race to satisfy a master. I dust it off and get ready. I run on to find a comet aster to survive. I am going crazy.
  
  Along the way, a turtle slams itself against my knee. I trip; blood spurting out of my forehead. “Relax,” it reminds me. “I’m just a little fella. How could you trip and bleed?” Its face distorts into a sardonic realization, then it laughs and swears — laughs and swears — laughs and swears — “Oh my goodness, you poor, poor thing. I thought you were the strongest contender? What’s the matter?”
  
  “I have to go through the walls and the tunnel, then roll around the endless lot,” I reply.
  
  “Why, that’s easy peasy! That’s not a problem at all!”
  
  “Are you kidding? That’s impossible.”
  
  “What did the pigeons say?”
  
  “How did you know about the pigeons?”
  
  “Who doesn’t know about the pigeons? Everybody knows about the pigeons. Come on. Pay attention. So what did they say?”
  
  “Nothing. They just gave me a nod, then they flew away.”
  
  “It wasn’t just a nod. It was “the” nod.”
  
  “The nod for what?”
  
  “Be outspoken. Be honest. Stand your truth.”
  
  “Oh. Is that what it meant?”
  
  “I told you to pay attention. You’ve got friends around here, you know?”
  
  “Okay, good. Thanks for the assurance. So now, what do I do?”
  
  “You go back there and shut the ghastly whistle up,” the turtle says. “Tell the ghastly whistle to show it to you first, to achieve the impossible, how to win this race. Because, my darling, no one can. It’s the one and only race in the entire universe that can never be won. No matter how fast and strong you are.”
  
  “Pay attention,” I ponder, cackling. “I got duped! Goddammit!”
  
  “That’s right, you poor, poor thing,” the turtle laughs. “Now, would you know how to survive next time?”

  I’m not sure, really. But then —
  
  I catch my breath. I run away. And I move on.
  
  Hoping to accomplish yet another day.
  
  And meet a comet aster. Or perhaps another turtle.
  
  Along the way.
  

  October 9, 2025

  Hard Labor, Immigrant, Life Lesson, Wisdom, Work

  ---

• Mundane

  humanity

  Mundane

  This poem was inspired by my morning commute. What a painful awakening.

  So overwhelming, here comes the mundane. Lifting myself from cushion, reeling into corpse. I secure a blessing first before I die, then off to meet other poor souls. No force.
  
  The bus may be warm, yet it listens and warns. A long journey towards judgment day. The train awaits, bearing more of us. No one dares to utter a moan, we’re aware of our destiny. No fuss.
  
  We arrive to be beaten, we are also silenced. Is this a punishment for entering? Not a home in sight, no cheerful delight. We’re told it’s a choice conceived out of a foolish yearning. No singing.
  
  Desperate to escape, praying to stay alive. Yet, dignity holds on to survive. It’s fine, keep trampling it down. To fight back is a waste of time. It has already stuck into the skin. Society, this mundane, it stings.
  
  What’s even more overwhelming is they’re afraid of the sun. All of us are going to die at once. But I refuse to leave with snakes and vultures eating off my heart. My corpse will not let me lay to rest until I am satisfied with my art.
  
  Though I am ready to depart.
  
  The overwhelming. The mundane.

  October 7, 2025

  Creativity, Death, Immigrant Life, Mundane, Suffering

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