The Author's Unspoken Words (MGS Writings)

You could imagine,  No eyes to see,  No nose to smell,  No hands to touch,  No ears to hear, No mouth to speak,  Silence… Disabled…  That’s not me!  So don’t fuckin’ silence me,  'Cause I won’t do that,  I won’t dare to do that,  Perhaps my mouth can speak,  But my hands can write,  Everything in black and white,  Will soon turn to have life.  I am a writer, indeed by need,  To write the truth, delete the lies,  I can stand tall, fight for the truth,  Sealed my lips, handicap my arms,  Bend my knees, and throw my ashes,  Skin me to death, yet my words,  Will still exist. 

      A Quick Note from the Author: The Saint Islet Famine is entirely a work of fiction. While the desperation for melted cheese, tacos, and extra guacamole is a very real human emotion, the characters (including Kakia, Mary Bam, Samuel, and the heroic faculty of Saint Islet High School) are entirely products of the author's imagination. This story is written strictly for fictional fun, entertainment, and a good laugh. Any resemblance to actual high schools, real-life school districts, existing organizations, or real principal-led food truck syndicates is purely coincidental. No school cafeterias or industrial circuit breakers were intentionally harmed or targeted in the making of this story! Enjoy the read! *** ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Part 1 Friday's Famine The morning bell at Saint Islet High School had never felt so long, mostly because Friday was pizza and taco bar day, complete with watermelon for dessert. (the ultimat...

I never dreamed of being a writer. I just fell in love with words. I didn't seek a title, or praise, or fame; I simply learned to listen when they called my name. I feel them…  Their longing to be seen, Their begging to be written. Like ghosts waiting for a body, Like seeds waiting for the rain, I feel every single one of them. They do not want to be trapped in the throat, They want to be embraced by the page. And that’s what I did. I gave them life.  

A writer lost in thought, I wander far Beneath a cold and empty evening star. My shadow stretches down the lonely street, Where faded dreams and heavy footsteps meet, And all the vibrant colors turn to gray. My weeping pen, in silence and despair, Now traces lines of grief into the air. It bleeds the heavy truths that deeply lie, Beneath the gaze of my defeated eye, As every joyful memory slips away. To those with hearts of anger, I am low, A shattered mirror in the winter snow. They only see the flaws upon my face, A broken thing devoid of any grace, A hollow ghost of who I used to be. The eyes of love I seek are long since gone, Leaving me stranded in a bitter dawn. No tender arms are left to hold me tight, No gentle voice to guide me through the night; I fade into the dark, where none can see.

The water rises higher than the roof, A town submerged, of broken dreams the proof. No food to eat, no shelter from the rain, Cold shivering bodies carrying their pain. We look across the dark and drowning sea, And wonder if the leaders see what we see. Are we forgotten in this deep despair? Does anyone in high authority care? Oh chosen leaders, whom we proudly chose, Look down upon your people's heavy woes! Open your ears and hear the mournful cry, Before the remaining hopes we carry die. We gave our votes, we trusted in your name, Now in our darkest hour, we do the same. Extend your hands, come rescue us from fear, And wipe away the flooding and the tears.

In the quiet bustle of morning bright, I stand before my eager, teary eyes, A canvas blank, a world in sight, With dreams to weave and hopes to rise, Each lesson crafted, a labor of love, Words like seeds in fertile ground. I nurture, like stars above, In every heart, a spark is found. Through trials faced, I stand my ground, For every tear, a smile will bloom, In laughter shared, my soul is bound, In this noble profession I chose, Here I am with open hands, I’d lay my life, my heart, my soul, For every child who dares to dream, To guide them gently toward their goal, To help them find their own bright beam. For I am a vessel with light to flow, For teaching is the path I chose to be.    

  Waking up with so many things on my mind is truly overwhelming. After saying a short prayer, I pick up my pen and start to write. I still use pen and paper by choice, not because I lack a laptop or a computer. I purposefully choose not to write directly on a screen because I want my mind and my hands to work together as a team. I want to create without consulting or involving any hybrid machines from the internet. Later on, of course, I will use my computer and Wi-Fi to share my finished writing on social media but the birth of my thoughts always happens on paper.  Nostalgia Pain  It remains clear in my memory why I chose to leave. I used to frequently compare our home to the loudest prison; A sanctuary, it seemed, for storms that brought heavy blows to my soul, For it was inherently a dungeon of words I desperately wished to escape. The news that no one enters this house anymore has not faded from my mind, Which is why I decided to return and dissect every room, pi...

Upon waking, a flicker of hope starts to rise, That success will greet me beneath distant skies. I pray that this heavy exhaustion will fade, Replaced by the endless, calm rest I have made, When I reach the end where my true reward lies. My mind is so weary from worries and fears, As I think of you all through the passing of years. I only wish happiness guides where you tread, On the paths that you walk and the journeys ahead, To see you all smiling and wiping your tears. My heart is exhausted from making a space, To value and love you with selfless embrace. My body is broken from toil every day, To serve you and help you along on your way, Running this demanding and tireless race. Yet morning returns with a love just as deep, Transforming this ache that my soul has to keep. I find in my fatigue a power reborn, To see you succeed on a bright future morn, My body may fade, but my memory won’t sleep.    

Father, thank you for the grace of every day, A fresh beginning as I walk my earthly way. Jesus, thank you for the joy within my heart, For you loved me first, before my love could start. Holy Spirit, thank you for your guiding light, Bearing fruits of divine faith through day and night. My faith is anchored in the 3 in 1. A sacred bond that never undone. Though mountains shake and hills collapse from view, Your steadfast love remains forever true. It never fades, it never grows dim, An endless grace, an everlasting hymn. Holy, Holy, holy is your name, Age after age, you always stay the same. In the Father, the Son, and the Spirit my trust, My faith in the 3 in 1 never ending beyond measure

I sat beneath the canopy of a coconut tree, my eyes wandering aimlessly through the midday heat, searching for something to anchor onto. The school courtyard felt strangely distant. When a student brushed past, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, I offered a quiet hello. He paused, looking suddenly ashamed, as if caught in a place he shouldn't be. "Hey," I said softly, "could you pull up a chair for me?" He muttered a hurried promise to wait, spun on his heel, and ran away, vanishing into the shadows of the corridor. He never came back. An unsettling chill began to settle over me. I stood up and walked toward the breezeway, leaning against a concrete post to steady myself. When a fellow teacher walked by, I met her eyes and offered a warm smile, hoping for a sliver of camaraderie. She passed me like a ghost, her face completely expressionless, refusing to give me even a fleeting glance. Swallowing my confusion, I nodded to the empty air and walked toward th...

 A Deep Analysis of Students, Teachers, and Education in the 1990s and the 21st Century Education is like a living organism. It changes with time, adapts to every generation, and is shaped by technology and human culture. If we look back at the past three decades, we can see a massive transformation in the world of school. The reality of a student in the 1990s is very different from that of a student in the 21st century. The smell of freshly sharpened pencils and encyclopedia pages has now been replaced by the glow of LED screens and the speed of artificial intelligence. This essay explores these two different eras to examine changes in behavior, discipline, teaching methods, and the strengths and weaknesses of each generation. Behavior and Discipline: Respect for Authority vs. Finding One's Voice The psychological and emotional traits of students then and now are highly contrasting. In the 1990s, discipline was rooted in a healthy fear and high respect for authority figures,...

With the upcoming school week looming on the horizon, I stepped into my classroom, expecting the usual chaotic symphony of rustling papers and teenagers chatting. Instead, there was nothing but dead silence. Not a single student was in sight. I stood there, blinking, utterly baffled. Where on earth is everyone? I marched over to the windows, pressing my face against the glass like a frantic detective, but the courtyard was entirely deserted. Baffled and slightly unnerved, I slumped into my desk chair and buried my face in my hands. The absolute quiet was relaxing, sure, but my teacher brain was rapidly spiraling into a full-blown panic. I whipped open my laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard to pull up the master schedule from the Vice Principal’s email. I double-checked the dates, the times, the periods. Yes! According to my screen, I absolutely had a class with them right now. So where was my missing army? I paced back to the window, desperately hoping to spot a passin...

Waking up with so many things on my mind is truly overwhelming. After saying a short prayer, I step out of bed, pick up my pen, and start to write. I choose not to type on a computer because I want my hands and mind to work together as a team, completely free from the internet or machines. At first, the words do not fit quite right. There is a smudge on the paper and a line goes wrong, so my eraser becomes my helper. I try to write another line, but my thoughts will not cooperate. Once again, the eraser becomes my hope. In this quiet moment, I realize that writing is a deeply personal journey. Every person has their own unique signature when they write a voice that belongs to them alone. I do not write to impress other people or to make them like me. Instead, I write to express my true feelings and thoughts. Writing is my ultimate outlet. I know my writing is not flawless, but I believe it is perfectly imperfect. I am a human, not a machine. My lines might have cracks, and my w...

I pick up my pen, and I start to write. The words do not fit quite perfectly right. A smudge on the paper, a line going wrong, a rhythm that trips in the middle of song. But I am a human, not made of machine. I mix up my words, and I say what I mean. My lines have some cracks, my letters may bend, but each little flaw is a helper, a friend. I stumble, I learn, I try and I test. My messy, true self is always my best. So look at my pages, the dark and the bright. I am only human, imperfectly right.  

  History rarely delivers a unanimous verdict on political leadership, but time inevitably exposes those who treat the highest office in the land not as a profound public trust, but as a personal shield. When a leader is widely branded by the public as the worst of all time, it is rarely due to a single policy failure or economic downturn. Instead, it is the result of a comprehensive moral and structural decay. This ultimate failure occurs when weak leadership combines with selective justice, deliberate negligence during national disasters, and a total surrender to personal vices, all while using the machinery of the state to hide familial corruption. At the core of this political tragedy is the absolute vacancy of true leadership. True power lies in unifying a nation and making difficult decisions for the collective good. However, a weak leader avoids accountability, governing through a vacuum of indecision and cowardice. This weakness is most damaging when applied to the legal ...

The rapid rise of artificial intelligence has introduced a profound divergence in how we approach our daily work and creative tasks. Walk into any modern workspace or university library, and you will spot two distinct types of people: the one who heavily depends on AI to execute tasks, and the one who relies strictly on their own natural intellect. This technological divide creates an intriguing paradox that many of us wrestle with. On the surface, the AI-reliant individual experiences immediate advantages, moving through complex tasks with ease, speed, and minimal friction. Conversely, the self-reliant individual operates at a much slower pace, wrestling with problems and taking significantly more time to deliver results. However, beneath the surface of this efficiency gap lies a critical counterweight: the depth of true learning and long-term knowledge retention. While the machine-dependent person optimizes for immediate output, they risk outsourcing their critical thinking. Meanwhil...

 “It’s okay to not be perfect. It’s okay to make mistakes. It’s okay to do something you've never done yet. Because if we never do these things, we never grow.” While the quote beautifully highlights the necessity of human error for growth, the contradiction is that many high-stakes situations leave absolutely no room for error, and true growth often comes from discipline and precision rather than failure. In fields like medicine, aviation, or engineering, a single mistake can lead to catastrophic, irreversible consequences, making perfection a mandatory standard rather than an unrealistic ideal. Furthermore, always relying on mistakes as a prerequisite for learning overlooks the profound growth that occurs through rigorous preparation, mastery, and the proactive wisdom of learning from others' failures. Ultimately, while mistakes are natural, actively striving for flawlessness and executing a task perfectly the first time provides a different, equally vital form of personal a...

  Sunday at the church,  the sermons dig deep into my heart  Philippians 1:21  “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain” When you are ready to die,  Speak up all the burdens you bear, Let the weight of silence break, And release the thoughts that ensnare. When you are ready to die, Do what sets your spirit free, Dance in the light of fleeting moments, Embrace the wild, the untamed sea. When you are ready to die, Fear loses its grip, its hold, You no longer worry about losing, For in letting go, you become bold. When you are ready to die, You give up treasures, even the rare, Your most precious jewelry, No longer a chain, but a breath of air. When you are ready to die, Leave behind the weight of the past, Focus on today’s gentle whispers, In each heartbeat, find peace at last. But I AM not ready to die!  My body is giving up, but my mind refuses.   If I have one wish to make,  I would ask for gold or a diamond,  What’s the use of all ...

  The proverb whispers, "Some who lead will fall behind, and those behind will find the front." Yet the truth of it rests in how I steer my own journey. I walk neither at the vanguard nor do I linger in the shadows of the rear. In the realm of learning, I hold the quiet center. A holder of two degrees—bound to the beauty of the Filipino language and the logic of Mathematics—I chose to master the paths of Mathematics Education. If intellect were weighed, I would rest in the balanced middle; my mind claims no rivalry with the genius of Einstein. In the architecture of life, I am wedded. The companion of my choice and the blossoming fruit of our love are a universe complete. In this, my heart found its early peace. My treasury, however, must remain a silent secret. "Some who lead will fall behind, and those behind will find the front." It bows to what the heavens choose to bestow. Like a prayer breathed into the night, I will not demand what destiny has not woven ...

  These poems are written in rhyming couplets with an AABBCCDD ... rhyme scheme, using a free verse meter . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> BEHIND THE DESK - MGS We talk about school like it’s the best place, But teachers are running a stressful race. Underpaid, tired, and pushed to the brink, They have much less time than you would think. When the system breaks, they get the blame, But they show up early just the same. Before the first bell, they start their day, To help us find our own special way. They spot your talents and catch your vibe, And welcome you into the classroom tribe. The world forgets the hard work they do, But they never stop believing in you. They are the heroes who don’t wear a mask, Helping us out with every big task. They give us strength to reach the top. --------------------------------------------------->  THE LIVING HEROES – MGS In schools that promise a brighter day,...