“I”

By: Ruben Dizon

“How poetry saved my life”

People nowadays find poetry only to use them for their enrichment by means of their social state, being at the peak in knowing experiences they have not actually experienced just yet, and there exist those who are silent but have been through a lot that they do not have enough words to define how they were.

In other people’s eyes poetry is something they could use for compliments, yet for me poetry was a hand reaching forward, trying to help me be saved from a sinking state of being. I started writing poems as a way of expressing how I felt in a metaphor that my reader’s find funny. At first they saw me with light bearing words, in a form of a poem the comes one, two, three and more people seeing the real message, people who have read between the lines.

I was caught in the brink, the fall is yet to come but poetry appeared and drew a brdige towards the path I was ought to explore. The numbers of people that wanted to read my poetry multiplied as I write effortlessly a cry for help.

From time to time, my words have been more explicit and played quite the message through words. They started seeing improvements, and my message remained unchanged which instead helped me realized that the grief shouldn’t have happened way back when.

“Happiness is a choice” says the ignorant man that knows not. Happiness is simple that ironically makes it complex. Poetry saved my life and with no doubt other people’s lives as well. And till have I come to realize that it was not a cry for help, but a step towards safety.

The word “poetry” itself is a word Id like to use as a metaphor for myself. I was to save my own. I was not reaching for help, But I was bein gpulled by myself back up. Poetry turned to messages being read by those who I only chose to have the chance to read, in fear of being judged to have weak way of words. Changed, turned to people who I don’t know, together with unexpected and geuine compliments. Changed, turned into a secret love letter. Changed, words illustrated an image of frown turned smile. Changed, messages became stories. I was already telling stories of my own, stories I’ve seen have happened to other people i know, events that were yet to happen, stories of hope. Stories varied from simple to intricate wordplays. Changed once again, poems were sang, conducted with their own tones. I learned how to write songs. Sang them as if despair was just a word.

Existential crisis was an island I was in, I once planned an excape until I realized that I can actually make the most out of what I have. Having yourself is enough back up. I recommend for you to reach far, not to do so but lift up yourself and move forward with what you still have, then everything will come eventually, at once.

-R.E.D.