The Thing About Healing Is – 


I. It’s a process – a slow, dragging one; making you think it isn’t happening in the first place. For a fresh wound to bleed and sting, clot, turn into a scab you literally itch to scratch, and then a scar, to blend onto your skin perfectly, takes hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Sometimes it’s even the most superficial of cuts that take the longest.
Healing isn’t magical. It doesn’t make injuries and lesions instantly disappear. It can only transform what already exists. 

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there are things that poetry
can simply
not capture;
that no figure
of speech
can teach
a reader to visualize.
for example, neither rhythm nor rhyme can suffice
for how erratic a heartbeat is when love looks at you right in the eyes;
how no amount of personification
can ever word how nature grows and flourishes like it has a mind of its own;
and no, no metaphor can fully embrace
how the battered and the defeated can spit right back into Fate’s face;
drawing up arms, gathering armor,
ready to face battles with a roar.

there are some things that poetry cannot do justice,
but then again poetry doesn’t exist to please –
it merely tries to voice what our hearts cannot speak
and point out what our eyes secretly wish to seek.
its beauty lies in the fact that it tries –
in a few verses, in spare lines –
to weave meaning into confusing impressions
to give us whatever consolation
in the face of ineffability of beauty and disaster;
of wreckage and of wonder.

– j.e.e / figurative

Happy World Poetry Day! It’s a bit late – for me at least, but that depends on where you are in the world.

I have always preffered the stability and length of prose, and went as far as to call poetry pretentious. It does have the tendency but things have changed… I’ve learned to appreciate poetry’s magic. I pick up more compilations than I probably should, and write poetry too frequently with such audacity when I can’t even be called a proper poet. I still love that it is there for me to express myself, and to find myself as well. Especially in the works of Plath, Neruda, e.e. cummings, Teo Antonio, and Conchitina Cruz. Also goes for those who do spoken word – from Juan Miguel Severo to a dear friend who loves doing so.

Happy World Poetry Day. Share some of your favorites and maybe your very own.

REFLECTING: Surgeons Do Not Cry


Surgeons Do Not Cry is a book that focuses on the author’s experiences as he takes on the journey as a doctor in the Philippines. The book starts with Ting Tiongco’s decision to enter the school that leads him to UP-PGH, and ends with his decision to leave – and everything he’s learned in between.

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