Under the rust-tin roof of these Quezon City nights,
I heard a streetlamp hum its broken lullabies.
Jeepneys groaned like old guitars out of tune,
And every corner smelled of coffee, rain, and truth.
I walked these streets with a notebook made of aches—
Every line a bruise, every bruise a step I take.
How strange that words can heal what silence breaks,
And break what healing never learned to shape.
So I hold my breath like a stolen light,
Letting the rhythm decide what’s wrong or right.
Poetry—
that stubborn spark inside of me,
the fist that lifts when worlds collapse,
the softest scream in the hardest gaps.
Poetry—
the breath I lose so I can see
that even broken voices sing
when truth is humming underneath.
I wrote my name on the fog of an LRT window,
Watched it fade like lovers learning to let go.
Still I saved the shape before it disappeared—
Funny how memory pretends it persevered.
And you—
you were the echo in a Cubao stairwell,
A quiet laugh I kept like a secret spell,
A gentle riot in a man who rarely fell
For anything not written by heartbreak itself.
So I raise this pen like a trembling prayer,
Hoping the ink knows why it leads me there.
Poetry—
that stubborn spark inside of me,
the fist that lifts when worlds collapse,
the softest scream in the hardest gaps.
Poetry—
the breath I lose so I can see
that even broken voices sing
when truth is humming underneath.
And maybe all we are
are stories in a jar,
shaken by the dark
till the light remembers us.
And maybe all I know
is how a word can glow
when spoken by the soul
of someone walking home.
Under the neon rain…
Under the Cubao sky…
Under the ache of days…
I write to stay alive.
Poetry—
the stubborn spark that shelters me,
the road that keeps my heart awake,
the fire that burns through every ache.
Poetry—
the quiet war that sets me free,
the vow that even storms can’t steal:
to turn my wounds into something real.
So here I stand
with a pen like a lantern…
Writing the dark
until it turns to morning.