The final 5 poems selected by our influencer judges will be included below for public rating and feedback. Please make sure to put your first, second, and third place winners in the form below!

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Entry 1 – Everest in March

If the closer I look,
the farther I am
from beholder-hood;
how did I find out a spider’s web
is the spider’s soul smashed
against the contempt of solitude?
A web spun in half a minute is never
as good as an abandoned one,
like eavesdropping is to
overhearing and getting to know
that Mr. Ghose didn’t enjoy
his view of Everest much.
Baba calls it a bluff and nods
like a baby jackdaw
with a mouthful of spider eggs,
after I unsack that the Everest doesn’t care.
A jackdaw is a jackdaw and not a crow.
My father is a man of heights.
As if his throaty finger sticking out
of the window to show us the river threading away, down the valley
was meant for our car to pivot around and take us uphill.
That was something he would do.
Until a year ago, he wanted to hike
to Everest’s base camp,
now he wouldn’t even kill a spider.
I wouldn’t kill a spider either
but it is because I am afraid of them,
also because I am missing a pock
as big as the one that peeks from under
the airy sleeve of his half shirt.
Usually he would wear them on
as early as Sundays in February.
We are in March now and just this morning
he said he was thinking of putting one on
and taking me on a walk by
the railway-quarters’ ground like we did,
back when both of us were young.
I think I will have lunch upstairs
because I am afraid there is a huge spider
under the dining table
and he might say there is an ill wind –
bad for walkers, stirring outside.

Entry 2 – You’re as Free as the Day I Found You

You’re as free as the day I found you—
a wild fawn, estranged.
And there’s something so strangling
about loving someone free,

because you feel like you lose them
every time they go.

But in the way that I found you,
I don’t fear a thing.

You’re as free as the day I found you,
and still—
I find you,
again and again,
in my dreams.

Entry 3 – Teardrops 

True love—she sits without expectation.
My gaze, a gateway to the brown of your eyes.

She sings in sonnets the sound of your name,
asking questions only heard when hearts entwine.

True love—she is wise like ancient ridgelines,
riddles and rhymes are her mother tongue.

She told me to trust in my love’s keeper,
to let attachment go—then fall deeper.

True love—she whispered to me late at night,
that my ego wouldn’t fall without a fight.

She breaks the spell of me and you,
so we may dwell in the part that is true.

So today, I gazed into my true love’s eyes,
as if I were gazing for the very first time.

And then I knew where my true love sits—
at the top of a tulip, upon my very lips.

For once, I stopped asking again and again,
and fell in love with my wife, my best friend.

Let us share secrets meant just for lovers—
that distance is nothing when hearts are uncovered.

When I say I love you, it means I am yours,
it means I will wait, it means I am sure.

To be true is a man’s first pride—
to stand for his love and hold his head high.

This is but a teardrop from the ocean inside—
I burn in your embers, as our stars collide.

Entry 4 – Have You Yet to Notice?

Have you yet to notice the four walls
that constantly surround us?
Do you see the way
they are slowly closing in on you?

Look outside for a moment—
soften your gaze.

With a miniature town
and a tiny little train to keep me company,
I find myself trapped in a snowglobe
that you’ve chosen to shake.

Alone and left to wonder,
I sit and fantasize
about what life might be like beyond the glass.

Surely, there’s more to my story.
Please, tell me that one day I’ll make it out.

Choosing cruelty over consolation,
you snip my heartstrings
like a ribbon you keep as a trophy.

Brought to my knees,
I find myself stuck on the thought
that I’ll never grow up—
or is it that I’ll never be young again?

Caught in a rift where both directions terrify me,
I’m running out of people to blame
for where I’ve ended up.

I was seven years old
when I realized I was on my own,
ten when I noticed that God was dead.

Turning back to watch the dancing snow flurry,
my soul stirs,
and I decide to take another breath.

Entry 5 – Mean Mommy

Mean Mommy speaks in sugar and knives—
soft hands, hard words,
smiling as she sets the fire,
hugging while she twists the knife.

Mean Mommy loves you—
as long as you’re small,
as long as you don’t take up space,
as long as you bend when she breathes.

Mean Mommy tucks you in tight,
so tight you can’t move,
so tight you forget
what air feels like.

Mean Mommy stays in your bones,
in the mirror, in your voice,
in the way you say “I’m fine”
when you’re not.

Mean Mommy is dead.
But Mean Mommy lingers.

And some nights,
you still wait for her to say she’s sorry.

Entry 6 – Fissures to Freedom

Beneath the dawn’s soft blush, a fragile hope takes hold,
We strive to fit the mold—a story often told.
Concealing cracks, the fissures deep within our souls,
Where shadows dance and whisper, taking their harsh tolls.

Yet in this desperate act, a paradox unfolds—
Our truest selves emerge, as strength our spirit molds.
Afraid of judgment’s sting, society’s harsh controls,
We hide our vibrant colors, fearing what they show.

Their cruelty—a shadow cast from hearts untamed and wild,
A chilling wind that bites, leaving our spirits filed
With fear—a brittle shield against the pain inside,
Pride—a fragile armor where true feelings hide.

But what if we embraced the path less traveled, free?
Claimed a joy profound, a wild and boundless glee?
Beyond the superficial din, the masks we wear with ease,
To find the quiet strength that sets our spirits at peace.

Our nation’s wealth—a mosaic richly told and shown,
A motherland to cherish, a legacy well-known.
The Philippines’ heart beats strong for every soul’s desire,
A future forged in hope, fueled by an inner fire.

Let kindness bloom—a flower bathed in golden light,
Let empathy’s soft hand gently break the chains of night.
Together, we will build a haven, find our rightful place,
Where authenticity’s pure flame forever lights our face.

And freedom’s song resounds—a melody so clear,
A testament to hope, banishing all fear.

Entry 7 – Never Got The Chance

I know I never got the chance to show you to the world,
So I will hide you beneath these pages like a cryptic code.
I will cover you in layers and layers of words
That readers will try to understand.

You will live on in the same way you were stuck in my heart—
And this time, our story won’t end in hurt.
Instead, you will be the muse that poets envy,
And I will be the poet with a heart not heavy.

I will build you through the ink that seeps onto this paper,
And our story will live on forever.

Entry 8 – Isn’t It Funny

Isn’t it funny how I remember
The bra I wore to your funeral,
But not our final conversation?

Isn’t it funny how
I have blue rims around my eyes,
But sometimes, I forget how to see you?
Can I still?

Isn’t it funny how
I gave my soul and spirit
Just for the crumbs
Of saying I did?

Entry 9 – The Illusion of Us

Images of you in my mind
Churn up illusions of a haunting kind—
Some sober, some unrefined,
Snapshot to snapshot, memories aligned.

Your eyes—of much gravity and allure.
Your lips—attract many a thought impure.
Your touch—it slowly conjures
A fleeting warmth, my faith’s cure.

You don’t see me like this, though.
All of me, you did outgrow.
And while you walk with someone new,
You leave me nothing but endless woe.

And so, on these cold evenings,
Images of you assault my mind,
Churning up emotions of a different kind.
I snap back with a start—only to find
Alas, you remain a figment of my feeble mind.

Entry 10 – Destiny

She was a bony, starving thing,
Still a kitten herself, with a litter
Of dead babies when my father found her
In a barn he was about to tear down.

He brought me to her—eight years old
On a cold morning so early
It felt like night.

She was pure white,
Except for the blood
Still matted into her fur from birth,
With a silent aching cry
I could feel in my own bones.

I spent the sunrise coaxing her to come out
From the nest she’d built in the rafters,
Fearful she would become part of the fallen—
Alongside the stillborn bodies
And wreckage of old barn wood.

I named her Destiny,
And she was mine.
And I, hers.

She never did grow a voice—
No audible mew at all—
But at night, when she slept
In the safety of the crook of my neck or armpit,
Her whole body rattled like an engine.

Like her, I was a mama too young,
Staving off death,
With milk from a dropper,
Wrapping her in blankets,
Tucking her into my doll’s stroller,
Cooing into her ear, You’re gonna be alright.
Even then, my instinct was to love the trauma away.

Now here I am, contemplating
This Year of Destiny, wondering
Which aspect of me will come into focus—
How to narrow it down to a word—
And all I see is the sweet, slick body
Of my first beloved pet.

My Destiny, purring beneath the blankets,
Beneath the trauma of neglect
Until she was saved by love,
By the hand of the Divine in human form.

My sweet Destiny,
Today I hear the caul of your voice,
And you are silent no more.

Entry 11 – Blood Fetish

Your razor blades never seem to fit in my veins.

I cut through deep thoughts to remember—
there’s still a pulse that beats its purpose,
and lungs that scream beyond the Wilhelms
of static frequencies.

My sorrow became a sight for sore eyes
once crimson tears poured down the frail
of a maddening existence.

In malicious moments, I promised myself
there were no praying hands above
to surrender me to salvation—
only knives for nails below
to drag me to my own eternal suffering.

Unspoken vows broken as the pulsating pressure
blurs the promise of tomorrow out of focus.

A theory of malevolent demise—
I cannot continue to bring you back to life
when I have my very own nooses to tie.

Entry 12 – Cell by Cell

I am working on it.
On the constant pursuit of wellness and kindness.
And I will always be working on it.

On tiring, metamorphic change.

On voluntary and involuntary
tilling, travailing
change.

On the steady or rushing,
invited or uninvited
constant renewal till the end.

Cell by cell,
my scars heal.
Skin regenerates and remodels;
my lungs labor and endure.

Like the rings on a tree,
like the creek flowing free into the river,
on the way to the sea,
my body and soul will persist.

I am unfolding an unfinished self,
day by day,
cell by cell.

And I am learning that this is okay.

Entry 13 – Tiger Lily

Warm and open,
ever hopeful,
reaching toward the windowsill—
greeting each dewy morning as an endless thrill.

What should happen lest you be cut down?
Lest you be picked at and beaten?
Drop your petals—sink into the ground?

“Never!” I thought.
I’ll not yield the satisfaction
of curling up dead
and getting nary a reaction.

I’ll shine on brilliantly.
Let these colors be seen.
Who can you brighten?
Make them feel like a queen?

So I’ll tend to myself and wait for golden hours,
just to make them smile at me,
a fragile, resilient flower.

Don’t cut me down, for I’ve smiles to give.
There’s so much happiness to bring
when you’re truly ready and willing to live.

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Every poet who submits takes a bold step toward their dream of publication. One poem could change everything. And this isn’t just about winning—it’s about being seen, being read, and leaving a mark in the world of poetry.

The next Publishing Prize is open now.

This is your moment. If you felt even a flicker of inspiration reading through the finalists, that’s your soul telling you it’s time.

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