They had names.
Each one.
Not just one name, not just one face.

They came cloaked in titles,
in ancient whispers,
in fire, in shadow,
in wounds that smiled back at me.

Lucifer, they called the first—
light-bringer, son of the morning,
the one who fell
because he dared to rival the Most High.

Then came Satan—
the accuser,
who stood at the gates of my mind
and hurled every guilt I ever carried
back into my bloodstream.

Beelzebub, the lord of flies,
danced around rotting thoughts
and dead things I never buried.

Abaddon and Apollyon—
the destroyers—
they didn’t come with explosions.
No.
They came with silence.
With decay.
With the slow unraveling
of hope.

Belial, worthless and lawless,
he walked with men in suits,
hid in songs I used to love,
slipped into conversations
with sugar on his tongue.

Asmodeus,
he made lust a god,
he whispered,
"You deserve this."
And I believed him.

Legion—
yes, they were many.
They didn’t come in chains,
they came as comfort.

Leviathan, pride’s great serpent,
he told me I was above forgiveness,
above grace,
above needing help.

Baal, Molech, Chemosh—
those who took offerings of children,
not always by fire,
but by the slow neglect
of our own humanity.

Mammon, the god of greed,
he kissed my hands when I lied,
he smiled when I sold pieces of myself
for applause.

They all had names.
And they all knew mine.

But still—
they did not win.

Because another Name
entered the battlefield.
A name not of deception,
but of truth.
A name not of ruin,
but of restoration.

He came not with a whip,
but with wounds.

Not with accusation,
but with blood.

He did not speak like the others—
He wept.
He bled.
He broke bread with me
even when my hands
were still dripping
with betrayal.

He called me His.
Even when I only knew the names
of those who had destroyed me.

He is Yeshua,
Jesus,
Messiah,
The Lamb,
The Lion,
The Door,
The Way,
The Truth,
The Life.

He is the name above every name—
and in His name,
my demons lost their power.

One by one, they left.
Not by my strength—
but because He stood between me
and their claws.

So when they say,
“Hell is full,”
I say—

No.
Hell is empty.

Because they were all here.
But now,
they are gone.

And God lives in me.

Stop searching for places where you feel like you need to fit in, especially when you truly don’t belong there.

Stop seeking love from people just to fill the emptiness inside you.

You cannot expect to receive something from others if you are unable to give it yourself.

Simply put, you cannot give what you do not have.

So, learn to appreciate and love yourself first.

I do not need a therapist—
Poetry is all I need.
Since it is my unpaid therapist;
Where the world's perspective of me is the contentment of my experience
Hence, Hello Poetry is my freedom wall, so to speak.

I am nothing but a lost traveler, yet I chose the path less traveled by.  
I trusted the process, and it led me to the road not taken.  

Life’s journey offers no shortcuts—each road we take comes with its own imperfections:  
a bumpy one, a straight one, a winding one, or perhaps one shrouded in uncertainty.

I can forgive you for many things—whether it’s how you act or what you say to me. But I will never forgive you for hurting my mother’s feelings. Yes, I may have my own issues with her, but that doesn’t mean I ever wanted to hurt her, and it certainly doesn’t give us the right to do so.

I understand that your feelings are valid. I know you're in pain too. But that doesn’t justify hurting her in return. Just because you’ve heard things that made you feel hurt doesn’t mean you have the right to inflict the same pain on her.

You can judge me—I can take it,
I am a grown up now, I handle things differently any woman would want to.

You gave it your best shot to know my life—but you never knew the real me
You never knew how capable I am of controlling my emotions but my face says it all;
My eyes says it all,
Don't taunt me, or else, you will never like it when something bad happens to you

You think you can belittle me, go on
The show is about to start
Put your pretty makeup on now
So that it will hide your shamelessness

Go ahead, wear some perfume, brush your teeth, and gargle with mouthwash—maybe that’ll take care of the lingering funk you’ve got going on.

You were so proud to tell the whole world about my ***** linens
Are you sure that you are so pure and clean?
Reel it in, you only know the half of it
The stories and the highlights of my life, are only short info of what you feast on
You never knew my whole autobiography.

At exactly three AM of VI/X/XXXV— it was a decision I made that changed my life. A rash decision based on what I wanted to feel at that time.

This was the hardest story I could ever tell the world—about what really happened to me. It was an awareness, that we have to be very careful who we chose to welcome in our life.

Everyone can be our friend—male or female, regardless of what gender. But some men, though I do not overgeneralize the fact, that my perpetrator is a male. A xxv-year old male, never attractive or my type—but he was a corrupting minor.

I was only XV at that time, maybe what made me drawn to him, was how he saw me regardless of how invisible I was in the eyes of others. I love the attention he gave me. The time he spend with me. But I was not his and he was not mine as well.

For some, it was an eye-opener but for some it was grief.
That nightmare I experienced, I hope it was only a dream that when you wake up it was no longer there;
But, that was not the case, at all.

He left me a scar that took me forever to heal, a trauma I cannot get rid of. I struggle to trust people's intentions. I judge people easily when someone wants to come into my life. I questioned God from before, I even questioned my identity.

Will someone love me or accept me? I felt so ***** at that time. Everytime I look at myself in the mirror, I look like I was too transparent for everyone to see when they look at me.

When someone talks behind my back, I became anxious.
My therapist diagnosed me of having Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD) because even in my dreams, he visited me.

To the old me, back in XXXXXV—I am sorry that I caused you too much pain. You struggled on your own. You became home-schooled, faced the challenges on your own, sent away by your parents for a rehab, you learned how to become an independent person. You found your way through Poetry, you opened your old wounds for people to look at, not being judged.

To the young and naive you, thank you for being brave. For facing your problems on your own. Thank you for molding me into what I am today. I hope your inner child is healed already, because you were forced that at such a young age, your mother believed that "Maturity comes with age" but you realized that "Maturity depends on the kind of experience you had."

To the new me, you can smile and laugh now, for you have been freed—not by kindness, but by years of forgiveness and repentance. Let go of things that we cannot control or hold dear of. Life is always like that, very unpredictable and chaotic—but it is very pleasing to live a good life despite of its chaotic measures.

---_yndn.

No revenge, just poetry.
Play fair or lose everything.
Choose the right cards to fold or raise;
choose the right piece to move, or else checkmate.
Choose the battles you prefer to win—do not outwit me.
You don't have to send your army of evil just to make me change my ways. Nah.

I prefer my words like ice—
my tongue, a blade honed to perfection.
My presence shatters like broken mirrors,
leaving only jagged reflections behind.
And when my eyes meet yours,
they do not waver—only burn with disgust.

Even if you thought you already won—nah, I am just warming up.
If you thought I was scared just because I didn’t overreact, you assume too much.
Looks can ****—take note.
What kills you most isn’t how I look at you,
but the way it itches you to see me not give a f*ck.