pinkedesquire 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Before poetry was written in books or displayed in galleries, it was spoken, sung, and passed from one generation to another. In Philippine oral tradition, rawit-dawit refers to short poetic expressions that are often chanted or recited, simple in form, yet rich in meaning. These verses were used to express emotions, observations, wisdom, and even quiet dissent.

From this tradition emerges tigsik, a shorter and sharper form of rawit-dawit. A tigsik is brief, raw, and direct, sometimes only a few lines, but it carries the weight of truth. It does not aim to impress through ornament; it aims to awaken.

My second poem, written in the form of a tigsik written originally in Masbateño (Bikolnon) language, was featured in an art exhibit as a reflection of the current state of the people and the government. True to its form, the poem was unapologetic. It emphasized a conviction I hold deeply: once you are socially and politically awake, it becomes a sin to remain blind, mute, and deaf to the corruption happening around you.

To be “woke” in this context is not a trend or a performative stance. It is a moral awakening. It is the painful realization that silence, when one already knows the truth, is no longer neutrality, it is complicity. Growing up exposed to the realities of governance, inequality, and abuse of power, I became aware at an early age that the struggles of the marginalized are not distant stories; they are lived experiences of people whose voices are often ignored or suppressed.

This early awareness shaped my sense of responsibility. I learned that privilege, whether it is access to education, language, or platforms, comes with an obligation. Thus, I became an advocate for being the voice of the voiceless, not to speak over them, but to amplify their cries. Through writing, art, and the platforms available to me, I chose to confront corruption rather than coexist with it.

The metaphor of "Marites" or gossiper serving as an alarm clock symbolizes the poem’s purpose as an awakening call. What is usually dismissed as noise becomes necessary disruption. Like an alarm, the poem disturbs comfort and routine, insisting that the truths we try to ignore must be heard. It reminds us that once we are awake to social and political realities, choosing silence is no longer an option.

The tigsik I wrote stands as both a protest and a confession. A protest against a system that normalizes injustice, and a confession that once the eyes are opened, there is no turning back. Poetry, in this sense, becomes more than art, it becomes resistance. It becomes a refusal to forget, a refusal to be silenced, and a refusal to accept corruption as an unchangeable reality.

To write a tigsik about governance and social issues is to honor the very roots of rawit-dawit: art that belongs to the people and speaks for the people. In a country where truth is often distorted and dissent is discouraged, choosing to write, and to speak, is a radical act.

Some days feel like wrong turns stacked on top of each other. Plans fail, timelines shift, prayers seem unanswered, and my first instinct is to call it a mistake.

But I’m learning from something as ordinary as a GPS: it never shames you for missing the turn. It simply recalculates and keeps guiding you forward. I realized that faith works the same way. When life doesn’t unfold the way I imagined, it isn’t proof that God has abandoned the route, it may be Him redirecting it.

I wrote this poem from a place I have rarely shared. At its heart is a question that has haunted me for years: Is it wrong not to hear the plea to come back from the one I once shared life with?

I grew up believing that pain was a form of love. I was taught, both directly and indirectly, that discipline through pain was normal, that it was proof someone cared enough to correct me, to shape me, to keep me in line. The people I thought would make me feel safe, the ones I should have called when I was afraid, were the very people who taught me fear.

Home was not a refuge; it was a place where my body learned to brace itself and my heart learned to stay quiet. For a long time, all I wanted was to escape, to breathe somewhere without flinching, to exist without being controlled through pain. Leaving was not rebellion; it was survival.

Now that I am free, guilt follows me like a shadow. When someone reaches out, asking me to return, to speak again with the person I once shared a cord with, the weight of history presses down. But I chose not to respond, not out of hatred, not out of desire to harm, but because I am afraid. Afraid that one conversation will pull me back into the fear I worked so hard to escape. Afraid that love will again be confused with pain. My silence is not cruelty; it is protection. It is the boundary I built so I could finally live without trembling.