𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Are We Living the Prequel?” by Chrissa Jean A. Salvador

 

Layout by: Yumilca Ahyan Domingo 

Published by: Rianna Isabel M. Tan

Date Published: July 20, 2026

Time Published: 12:02 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: Looking at our current hardships not as the final chapter of our life, but as the necessary starting point of a larger story.

Have you ever looked at your current situation, only to feel that you are trapped in a longer chapter of a story?

Very often, we mistake our present struggles for the final chapter, believing this stress is all our story will ever be. But a change in perspective will change everything, the chaos stops looking like a dead end and it starts to look like a beginning of a journey that is necessary for us to gain momentum.

For a long time, I felt like asking myself as to when will my life really begin? I watched others reach their milestones while I stayed in the same place. I felt like a background character—an extra for someone else’s story. It took time to realize that the most meaningful stories do not start at the finish line. They begin exactly where I was—a bit lost and searching for a way forward.

Our experiences build us up slowly. Life rarely gives us what we want first. Instead, it offers the difficult days that teach us how to handle success when it arrives. All the problems or obstacles you experience in the long run are not there to stop you—the lengthy hours, the failed attempts are just the details that make the victory feel earned. Without the climb, the view from the top loses its value.

Viewing your life as a prequel takes the pressure off. Rejection is no longer a wall. It is just a bump in the road that makes you more resilient. Time spent alone isn't a delay. It is the space required to find your own voice amid the noise. You stop feeling ashamed of the struggle because you recognize it as the foundation for everything ahead.

The best thing about a prequel is that the protagonist always makes it through, even if they do not feel like a hero yet. There is a sense of balance in looking at current problems and imagining how they will look when the story is shared years from now. This mindset turns worry into wonder. It is not just about enduring a hard time, but about gathering the grit needed for the future.

So, don't worry if everything isn't perfect yet. Every great story starts with a tough beginning, and you are still just finding your footing. This is only the first part of your story and th

e best is yet to come.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "Not Daddy's Girl" By Lana Yvonne Rante

Layout by: Kyla Dacanay

Published by: Keshia Gwyneth Esposa

Date Published: July 17, 2026

Time Published: 4:15 PM

 

‎Category: Prose

‎Theme: To be so similar to the same man that you've been desperately trying to avoid becoming 

‎

‎Do not look at me the same way you would look at my father. Do not tell me that I act like him or look like him. Do not compliment the uncanniness of our similarities.

‎I am nothing like my father.

‎

‎I may get angry like him, but I do not shout with his voice. We may have the same eyes, but mine are not filled with anger and contempt. I do not carry the same cruelty in my chest and I most certainly do not leave wounds in places where love was supposed to live.

‎

‎So please, do not look at me like I'm his daughter.

‎

‎Don't search for him in the way I stand, the way I speak, the way I carry myself. Do not point at the pieces of me that resembles him as if they are something worth admiring because every resemblance feels like a stain I cannot wash away.

‎

‎I spent years learning how to become my own person. Years pulling apart every habit, every mannerism, and every inherited piece of myself just to make sure I was not turning into him.

‎

‎Yet somehow, he remains. Why is that?

‎

‎When I hear my voice, I hear his tone hiding beneath my own. When I look at my hands, I see the roughness he left behind. Sometimes I catch my reflection in passing and for a split second, I understand why people hesitate when they look at me. ‎I see it in the way their expressions change. I sense it in the way they avoid my gaze. I hear it in the silence that follows after they realize whose daughter I am. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot blame them.

‎It is truly cruel that we share the same name. Cruel that his mistakes arrive before I do, that I am introduced as his daughter before I am ever introduced as myself. I have spent my whole life trying to prove that I am not him, only to discover that blood is a language everyone speaks fluently. ‎And perhaps the cruelest thing of all is that I carry pieces of him without my permission. Things I never asked for, yet things I cannot return.

‎How very cruel it is that when you rip apart the bones of my chest, searching for proof of who I am, you will find his heart resting instead of mine. And no matter how desperately I try to gouge it out, people will always recognize it before they ever notice that I have one of my own.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “You Were Right” by Lana Yvonne Rante

Layout by: Pryce Yunique Cabesas

Published by: Keshia Gwyneth Esposa

Date Published: July 16, 2026

Time Published: 11:40 AM

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “You Were Right” by Lana Yvonne Rante

Category: Poetry

Theme: proving someone wrong about perfection only to realize they were right and its okay to be flawed

You told me I wasn’t good enough,

That I was flawed, just like everyone else,

Your word imperfection struck deep and rough

And I recoiled, bristling at myself.

So I tried harder, I aimed for the skies,

I carried the weight of the world on my back.

To prove something, of course, to myself,

That I could stay on a perfect track.

Show that I was only the moon when its full,

That I belonged atop the highest crest,

Superior, untouchable, beyond reach—

And most of all, far above the rest.

I wanted so desperately to face you,

To look you in the eyes and declare:

“You were wrong—

I am the one who’s fair.”

Then I tasted my first bitter failure,

Then the second, then the third.

I had been the moon, so high above,

Now dragged back to earth, my wings disturbed.

From dizzying heights to the crowd below,

I clawed at my skin so desperate to rise.

Being here meant you were right,

And I would not accept that prize.

But time on earth revealed the truth,

The ground was softer than I knew.

I had aimed to prove you wrong for so long,

That I misunderstood what you meant all along:

“You’re flawed, and that’s okay.”

Even when the moon wanes and hides,

Its beauty remains,

And its truth abides.

It was okay to be imperfect,

To be human is to belong here on earth.

And finally, I whispered to the wind:

You were right.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “I’ll Wait, Hill of the Victors” by Kyla Joy Pontiga

 

Layout by: Mark Louie Pocot

Published by: Reiven Presbetero

Date Published: January 15, 2026

Time Published: 6:16 PM

I will wait for it.

The world’s spinning fast, and people are rushing through their lives to catch up. Saint-like figures gracefully write hundreds of poems, great minds battle through debates, and royalties gain power like they’re running out of time—all on the hill of the victors, everyone aiming to reach the top.

I come forth—a slow-witted sinner, a commoner with nothing planned out for my life—ready to climb the hill many fear, and some are breaking their backs to conquer. Where lives have been formed and lives have been lost, I set out on a mission, with shaking legs and a beating heart.

At the very bottom of the hill, the skies were shining bright as people looked down on me. The victors shouted triumph from the top, while I stood silently at the base.

Envious, yet motivated, I began my journey. I knew that, in my own time, I would reach my top.

As I set foot on this journey, I face every kind of trouble—the chaos of the dead in the crying rivers, the angry thunderstorms whose every gust tries to brush me away, and the roaring humiliations from those who were called “saints,” which were the most terrifying of all.

Who knows what awaits me beyond this hill? Will I ever be the victor I have always dreamt of, or will I remain the sinner they’ll always look down upon? No one—not even the gods—could ever answer.

I’ve fallen too many times to count, yet each fall only pushed me to rise again. The journey itself became my source of motivation. Many doubted I’d succeed—even I did—but those doubts pushed me harder. They sharpen my perseverance, fueling a quiet fire to prove something: that I am something.

I may bear many scratches, but I will never be wounded—for I am a sinner with nothing left to lose.

I am the one thing in life I can control. I will not be weakened nor defeated—not until I reach the top, with my own sweat, and in my own time. For this is the sole reason I am, and we are, alive.

I will reach the top as the sinner and victor I am, not as a saint. For this is all that I am, and all I will ever be.

I will wait for it.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Candles That Burn for Others” by Precious Joemalaine Ngo

Cartoon by: Alyssa Cardenas

Published by: Christine Palcon 

Date published: October 10, 2025

Time published: 2:49 PM

Category: Prose 

Theme: Teachers bear silent sacrifices in their hearts, all for the sake of illuminating their students’ paths.

Every good morning, good afternoon, and goodbye carries emotions hidden behind a mask—tears concealed by a bright smile shown to students. A teacher’s heart aches whenever they see their students suffer or feel hurt; it is as if a knife pierces their heart.

Yet many students never see through that mask. Why? Because their teacher’s smile shines so brightly, it seems free from all burdens. Teachers comfort their students like their own children, love them as though they were their own, teach with patience and willingness, and light the path toward their dreams.

But are these sacrifices always appreciated? Sadly, not always. Some students harbor resentment toward teachers simply because teachers push them to grow, to mature, and to learn. Still, students often fail to see the truth of what their teachers endure—their sorrows, their exhaustion, their silent struggles to protect their students from shame or failure.

Teachers have studied hard and worked tirelessly to become who they are. They endure sleepless nights preparing lessons, creating presentations, and attending seminars just to improve. Every drop of sweat, every late night, and every sacrifice is repaid in full when they see their students succeed—when those students achieve their dreams.

The most heartfelt reward for a teacher is not wealth or recognition, but the moment a student remembers them even after success—the tight hug from a former student now wearing a professional uniform, the words of gratitude spoken with sincerity: “Thank you for guiding me.”

Too often, students fail to realize how proud teachers are when they witness diligence and respect instead of disruption or indifference. Every lesson prepared, every hour spent, is for the students’ growth and future. Teachers each have different inspirations, different motivations, and different ways of showing love, but their devotion remains the same.

We must remember: teachers are not just teachers—they are our second parents. Without them, our paths to knowledge and understanding would remain dark. Without their sacrifices, we would not find inspiration or motivation to pursue our own dreams.

And let us never forget—teachers were once students too. They once sat in classrooms, inspired by those who taught before them. Now, they stand before us, carrying the torch, inspiring and motivating the next generation.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “To whom, if not myself?” by Lara Marie De Leon

Published by: Shaina Pajarillo

Date Published: July 2, 2025

Time Published: 12:13 PM

Category: Prose

Subject: Apologies.

Very early in my life, my hand learned how to fold inward and close in apology.

I found they’re not for holding nor to beckon. My hands seemed to always be ready to perform, only they trembled before even taking the stage. Even when they’re polished clean of any faults, they’re haunted by the guilt of wrongdoing. It’s as though they remember crimes I never committed, as if guilt seeps through my skin from some hidden ancestral wound.

Apology always looked to me like a foggy windshield—always distorting the view, softening every sharp reality into something half-visible.

I wear my 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘴 like layered coats in summer—unnecessary, suffocating. But it’s something I’d get sick without. My apologies almost become a punctuation, like it’s every breath—every sentence ends with guilt. I rarely speak; I only withdraw. The world touches my arm, and I flinch in apology. Joy was a dish I was forbidden to taste.

I became a graveyard of apologies no one asked of me. 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦. I whisper remorse into walls of empty grand halls like incense, in hopes of cleansing something unseen.

I’m sorry for forgetting, even when my memory possesses teeth and bites back; I’m sorry for the light cruelties of indifference; kindness was something I never had enough courage to give; I’m sorry for the laughter that was too much, too sharp, too loud.

Guilt never fades in me; it grows. It sits caged in my ribcage, pressing against the walls of my flesh as it ferments. It folds like a piece of paper, creases manifesting in places no one can seem to hold. Voices of strangers tell me to let it go. I nod and then hold onto it tighter. It is, after everything, the only weight I learned how to carry with grace.

Apologies became my ritual, a second nature. I offer apologies like loose change in a beggar’s cup, praying someone would say, “That’s enough.” No one ever does, so I toss another, and another, and another, coin by coin. 

Even when my lungs are peeled thin and words feel like a sharp splinter, I let them flow out. I’m sorry. Always. Even when there is no audience left to hear of it. I am sorry. Not even as a truth. But as a reflex. A shadow stitched to my being.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Knocking on Life’s Three Doors” by Kathleen D. Yambot

 

Published by: Shaina Pajarillo

Date Published: June 24, 2025

Time Published: 7:45 AM

Category : Prose

Theme: Discovering what it truly means to live through places where life is tested, lost, or taken for granted.

There are three places that the world often avoids—three doors most people pass by, pretending they do not exist. But if you want to truly understand the weight and worth of being alive, you must enter them. One by one. Quietly. Humbly. Completely.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹. 

The scent of antiseptic clings to your skin, and the steady beep of heart monitors echoes in your ears like a ticking clock. You walk through sterile halls lined with silent prayers. Behind every curtain is a story: a child too young to understand pain, a mother gripping a worn rosary with trembling hands, a man whispering goodbye with every labored breath. Here, you see how fragile the body is and how something as small as breath can be everything. You learn that life is not about how loud you live but how deeply you are loved when you’re no longer able to speak.

You leave that door changed. You now know that waking up without pain is a miracle in itself.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻. 

Metal gates screech open like a warning, but you keep walking. Inside, there is a stillness that does not come from peace but from regret. You meet men and women who wear their shame like second skin — hardened, quiet, but not unfeeling. Their stories are heavy and bad choices were made in anger, in poverty, and in desperation. Some are broken. Others are trying to piece themselves back together. In their eyes, you see what freedom truly means. It’s not about walls or bars, but choices. Self-control. Redemption.

You leave that door heavy, realizing that one wrong turn can cost a lifetime. You also carry hope—that even in the darkest corners, a second chance can still bloom.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆.

It is the quietest of all. No sirens. No screams. Just wind, grass, and the hum of memory. Rows of stone and names, some too short, some faded with time. You walk past them and feel a stillness that speaks louder than any voice. Here lie dreams unfinished, apologies never said, songs never sung. You kneel by a name and feel your own pulse in your neck—alive, while they are not. That realization breaks you and heals you at once. Life is short. Love hard. Forgive faster. Let go. Say thank you. Breathe deeply.

You leave that door aching—but awake.

Three doors. Three truths.

Life is not guaranteed.

Freedom is a choice.

Death is inevitable.

So while you're still here, laugh loudly, love fully, and live like you mean it. Because one day, someone will visit your name on a stone and wonder if you did.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Petals of Vow in Eternity’s Veil” by Rai Eniana T. De Iso

Cartoon by: Arashel Mei Cinco

Published by: Jadelynn Arnigo

Date Published: June 20, 2025

Time Published: 5:40 PM

Category: Poetry

Theme: A vow of pure love, devoted to one another.  

In fields where quiet whispers grow, 

Two souls entwine—they gleam and glow—

Carrying their fondness as the wind blows, 

The petals unfurl while their story unfolds.

Aloft in twilight dusk, devotion paints the skies,

Beneath, enwreathed in purity, bound by unseen ties—

Braided oaths, unraveling their genuine desires,

Professing a promise, soaring fate’s spires. 

One touch, one glance—a spark divine,

A bond most true, meant to enshrine—

A wondrous tale sealed by heaven’s decree—

Enact to evermore, thus the blossoms agree. 

They weave their hearts in a tender embrace, 

A beacon of grace, entranced in the daze.

Their love, engraved, in that forsaken place,

Where lilies laze, and skies are lavender haze.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "You Shine Anyway" by Hayden Jam R. Recto

 

Cartoon by: Yanai De Leon 

Published by: Shaina Pajarillo

Date Published: June 17, 2025

Time Published: 6:00 PM

Category: Poetry

Subject: LGBTQ+ Pride and Resilience

You—

the one who walked through storms wearing color like armor,

who learned to love your name before the world did.

They told you to shrink,

to blend,

to bend like a shadow.

But you—you chose light.

This is for the way your heart blooms.

Even when the mirror forgets how to reflect you,

for the names you've whispered into safe spaces,

for the flags in your eyes before they flew in the streets.

You carry history—

the riots, the kisses in hiding,

the ache of being seen too much and not enough.

And still,

You laugh like a protest,

You love like a revolution,

You live.

Because pride isn’t just the rainbow—

It’s the storm before it,

the hands that held yours in silence,

the voice you found and refused to let go of.

So here’s to you.

Loud or quiet, out or not,

whole, healing, hurting, rising—

You are the reason the rainbow still dares to stretch across the storm.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “To All the Hearts That Pump Blood” by Shawn Pangan

Layout by: Shawn Pangan

Published by: Kristine Caye Emono

Date Published: June 1, 2025

Time Published: 12:45 PM

Category: Prose

Subject: Friendship/Acceptance

Two beautiful boys were brought upon this world.

They were the same, they thought. They watched the same shows; they played with the same toys; they sang the same songs; they both grew.

Away from their grounds that never felt like home, they discovered one another. Two souls in a reverie who ached for warmth, who craved for friendship.

It wasn’t a matter of obligation; it was more of a natural, inevitable fate, as the way they sprouted mirrored one another. While the fragments of their sufferings brought them closer, their pact filled their surroundings with colors less dull.

For reasons unknown, boys their age saw their friendship as a target. His friend, for his crooked tooth, and he, for his peculiar demeanor. There were words that shouldn’t be coming out of anyone’s mouths: You’re like a girl! You’re like a monster! Profanities, profanities, and the puzzling question: Are you a couple?

“Of course!” They wanted to yell, though not of the things they’d assume. Why not embrace the term, the very word? “Couple”, a pair, a duo—it’s an understatement, anyhow. They were, in fact, just that. No, even more; two people, inseparable.

Those slanders never pained him, no matter how hard they tried. Yet, each time, he’d glance at his friend to decipher a reaction, a flinch, or disgust. But there was always nothing.

They were still the same; they still thought—even if everyone else kept telling them otherwise. One thing, though: although it didn’t hurt him, it did scare him. Because were they? Were they the same?

A few seasons passed, and they witnessed it together, mostly inside a quiet room. The rustling of the wind, the melting of the snow, the falling of the leaves, and then, the first bloom of words:

“I like her, you know? I’d fly too close to the sun if she was there.”

“I feel the same about him, too.”

“Him?”

“I’d rearrange the stars if it made him smile.”

The lamp flickers. A pause.

“I guess mine makes me Icarus—who would you be?”

“Perhaps I’m Superman, and you’re insane.”

After a silence, laughter echoed.

“Well, who’s he?”

“You really don’t mind?”

He looked at him for a minute, then: “Why would I?”

He already knew—this was merely a confirmation. But it didn’t bother his friend, just as much as it didn’t bother him that he knew. He always wanted him to know, in some way, even without saying it.

Why would he be bothered, anyway? After all, their bodies did the same thing—their eyes both see, they both cry, their tongues both taste, their lungs both breathe, their brains both think. Most importantly, their hearts both love. With it, both their hearts feel softer, more delicate.

“We’re all the same, without a doubt. We all fall; we all love; we all bleed; we all hurt.”

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Where the Fire Feels Like Home” by Khim Lhady May Galasinao

 

Published by: Kristine Caye Emono

Date Published: April 23, 2025

Time Published: 3:50 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: The willingness to risk everything for a love that makes you feel at ease, even if it means that you'll fall and get hurt at the end.

I have spent my life searching for a home that does not crumble beneath my touch—one not built from anger and heavy footsteps. But every door I open reveals only emptiness, and every roof I stand beneath feels like a prison. I am weary of existence, exhausted by the weight of my own breath.

And then there is you.

A house set ablaze, a ruin that does not beg to be saved. You burn reckless, unyielding—and I am drawn to the glow like something starved for warmth. I do not fear the fire. I want to step into it, to let it strip away everything that has made me cold. 

If I must be undone, let it be in your light. 

If I must disappear, let it be in the only place that ever felt like home.

But homes are not meant to last. Fires do not burn forever. And as I stand at your threshold, I wonder. Am I meant to survive you, or was I always destined to become part of the ash you leave behind?

Still, I step forward, drawn by the heat—knowing it will hurt, yet willing to bear the burn. Love has never been kind to me. Always fleeting, always slipping through my fingers like sand. But you—you are different. 

You are not a love that fades into the background, not a quiet whisper or a gentle touch. You are wildfire—consuming. And perhaps that is why I want you.

Inside your flames, there is no room for hesitation. No space for the fear that has kept me wandering, searching for shelter in places never meant to hold me. You are not safe, but you are real. And for once, I do not want safety. I want to be ruined by something worth the fall.

So I step into you, knowing I will never walk away the same. My skin may blister, my breath may catch in the smoke of us, but I do not care. I would rather be scorched by love than spend another lifetime in the cold.

If I must burn, then let me burn for you.

If I must be reduced to ash, let it be in the arms of the only thing that ever felt like home.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “The Threshold of Maybe” by Angela Garilao

Layout by: Jhon Mark Torres

Published by: Kristine Joyce Soriano

Date Published: April 14, 2025

Time Published: 12:38 PM

Category: Poetry

Theme: The internal struggle between fear and the regret of not seizing opportunities.

The door stood open, bathed in light,

A golden chance within my sight.

Yet doubt’s cold grip refused to wane,

And held me back in silent chain.

“What if I rise? What if I soar?”

Yet fear still whispered, “What if you fall?”

So I just watched the moment fade,

A step not taken, a price unpaid.

“The echoes called, ‘Step forth, be free!’”

Yet still, my hands denied the key.

Would I have flown or lost my way?

I’ll never know—I let it stray.

Now time moves on, the door is dust,

Its golden glow now lost to rust.

No victory’s light, no lesson learned,

Just faded hopes and bridges burned.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "A Unique Kind of Love" by Khate Ashley Zaneah D. Castillo

Layout by: Louise Gabryael Quijano

Published by: John Kurt Gabriel Reyes

Date Published: April 11, 2025

Time Published: 2:33 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: The power of love and connection against physical separation.

𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥. It's a weird feeling, right? The way you occupy my mind even though you're not physically present. I see your face in the crowds, I hear echoes of your voice in the wind, knowing it's just my pure imagination playing tricks on me. It sometimes serves as my lullaby, a gentle rhythm that soothes my worries and brings me peace. It reminds me of our shared laughter and the simple joy we found in each other's company.

Maybe it's the conversations that felt deeper than just words on a screen because there's a genuine connection. The understanding in just a single glance across a screen—that fleeting moment, our shared humor and shared pain, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦-𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺.

Knowing that I can't physically feel you creates a distance that's both frustrating and fascinating. It is a yearning for something intangible, I'm longing for the warmth of your presence. I find myself reaching out instinctively, only to remember the emptiness of where your hand should be.

Sometimes I wonder if this intangible connection is strong enough to call it a unique kind of love, a love made of words, a love that exists in the spaces between the lines, and in the silences between our messages—a love that lives in every corner of my heart.

But even with that distance, the physical separation, you're still there like a whisper—in the back of my mind. A reminder that even in the absence of physical presence, a connection can still happen, that it can still exist and I admit that it is something I find both strange and...beautiful.

𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦—𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “No Solace in Ashes” by Luigi Andree A. Baños

 

Layout by: Genesis Amemita

Published by: Kristine Joyce Soriano

Date Published: April 10, 2025

Time Published: 3:08 PM

Category: Poetry

Subject: The Paradox of Love

It isn’t love if it doesn’t make your sanity drown in chaos,

if it doesn’t blur the line between ruin and rapture,

between prison and paradise, where hearts beat recklessly,

aching for the fire that both burns and binds.

Love is not a gentle whisper, but a hurricane’s hymn,

pulling you into depths unknown, where logic crumbles,

where every touch is both a wound and a wonder,

where absence feels like exile and presence, a war.

It is the paradox we crave, the madness we choose,

a storm that leaves us shattered, yet whole,

for what is love if not the beautiful disaster,

that we surrender to again and again?

Love is the chaos we learn to crave,

a storm we welcome with open arms,

where destruction and beauty collide,

leaving us breathless in the wreckage.

IMAGE SOURCE: 

roevart (n.d.) Pinterest. https://ph.pinterest.com/pin/8444318045980769/

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "The Heavy Weight of the Rain" By Ashley Jhanelle G. Ramos

Layout by: Misha Mikylla Sanchez

Published by: Kristine Joyce Soriano

Date Published: April 9, 2025

Time Published: 1:37 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: Giving in to the pressure of others and the consequences that comes with it.

I took a risk I knew I shouldn't.

I tried to tell them no, but I couldn't.

I knew I shouldn't have listened,

but the voices were too much—

filling my mind until their words became my only thoughts,

until even my own voice was nothing more than a faint whisper, lost beneath the noise.

They insisted it was the right choice,

a chance to prove myself, to rise above.

And should I hesitate and walk away,

then it's because I'm too weak,

too scared to face what was infront of me.

And so, I stepped forward—

into the storm of their pressures and expectations.

But there was no victory waiting for me,

Instead I was met with the cold, heavy rain of disappointment.

Each drop soaked me, pressing into my skin,

until everything felt heavy,

until my steps slowed,

until all I could do was stay still—

trapped in the aftermath of my own decisions.

And when the rain finally starts to slow down,

that's when regrets start pouring in.

What have I done? Why did I do it?

but it was too late, the choice was already made.

Why did I let their voices guide my steps?

Why did I become the storm—

scattering reckless actions, breaking from who I am?

But the damage is already done.

The raindrops already on the ground,

and there was no way to turn back time.

All I can do is stand here,

watching the water spread,

knowing I can’t take it back,

can’t undo what’s been done.

I gave in to their voices,

and now I bear the weight of their expectations,

the cost of silence when I should have stood my ground.

There is no way of going back,

no shelter from the aftermath.

Only me.

And the storm I find myself in.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "A Poem I Swore I'd Never Write” By Angela Garilao

Cartoon by: Ariana Faith Par

Published by: Kristine Joyce Soriano

Date Published: April 9, 2025

Time Published: 10:46 AM

Category: Poetry

Subject: The Awakening of a Poet’s Heart

I never meant to hold a pen,

To string my thoughts like paper men.

Words were weights I wouldn’t lift,

A fleeting art, a passing drift.

I laughed at those who bared their souls,

Who carved their hearts in verses whole.

Poetry, I used to say—

Was just a game I wouldn’t play.

But then, I saw you lost in lines,

Tracing truths between the signs.

You read each stanza like a vow,

As if it lived inside you now.

And so, the ink began to spill,

Not by force, but by my will.

I wrote, not asking for a place,

But just to hear you trace my name. 

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “It Was Easier with You” by Frans Danielle R. Castillo

 

 Published by: Christine Mae Karunungan

 Date Published: April 4, 2025

 Time Published: 3:25 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: Not wanting to try again with someone new.

I don’t understand how some people find it easy to be with someone new after not working it out with their past lover. I don’t get how it’s easy for them to introduce themselves over and over again. Telling the new person their favorite color, their favorite food, their interests—only for them to not last long.

I can’t imagine that I’ll be in that kind of position. I can’t imagine myself sharing my deepest secrets and expect them not to be scared away. Admitting my mistakes and thinking that they will still accept me nevertheless. Showing my vulnerability without silently begging that they will stay by my side. 

I could never handle the idea of undressing myself for someone new.

They would never understand. They wouldn't understand like you do. It’s different with you. It was easier with you.

It was easier to tell you my secrets because it never scared you away; you thought of it as a way to know me more. It was easier to admit my mistakes because you never failed to assure me that it’s okay. It was never hard to show you my vulnerability because you’re always there to wrap your arms around me as you constantly whisper that it will be alright.

You helped me undress the bad parts that I was too scared to show to anyone. From the way I cry about every minor inconvenience I have. The way I tend to walk away for a while whenever I feel that something's off. The way I aggressively handle things because it is what I was taught to be. But in the end, you're still there, quietly standing behind me as you patiently wait for me to come run to you.

So no, I could never handle the idea of allowing someone new to know me. If it’s not you, then I’d rather be alone.