Noble Sensibilities of Puta Mala Flaca

My professor told me once that I have a problem with words. Let me rephrase that, “I have a problem knitting words together..” She was right. But what makes it interesting is the befuddled perceptions and reactions it brings about. I don’t know if it ever has any

psychological disorder association,

but just as she perfectly puts it, 

I use words to tie to an emotion, hence defying.. ruining its real meaning. It is indeed a mawkish personification of a pathetic, vulnerable soul. The one who knows..the one who feels.. that who sees through me will have the power to mock or console the seeds of my emotions. It will probably take someone with bullshit degree in psychology or one with vacous views of what this world means to make it.

So in normal cases, my messages are relayed pretty clear as hatred, pessimism, or scornful thread of outreach. But I do not question anyone the same way that I have stopped questioning why I’m misunderstood. I have accepted the fact that my poems, articles, or stories who were mere anonymous standings of my used-to-be solemn amusements, are now out into this world for criticisms. The Gilipolas and the Puta–hungering over my ghosts.. But you see, I don’t give a shit at all. I don’t give a shit unless you have felt my pristine silence.

Few months more of hard work and I’d be out with my first pottied masterpiece. It scares me though given that there’s more to see in it. The next challenge is if I can afford to be visible..ready to take that warping-slamming swing. My wit says, Si Se Puede!

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Abby Mabb

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