About POP!

POP! is INQUIRER.net’s premier pop culture channel, delivering the latest news in the realm of pop culture, internet culture, social issues, and everything fun, weird, and wired. It is also home to POP! Sessions and POP! Hangout,
OG online entertainment programs in the
Philippines (streaming since 2015).

As the go-to destination for all things ‘in the now’, POP! features and curates the best relevant content for its young audience. It is also a strong advocate of fairness and truth in storytelling.

POP! is operated by INQUIRER.net’s award-winning native advertising team, BrandRoom.

Contact Us

Email us at [email protected]


MRP Building, Mola Corner Pasong Tirad Streets, Brgy La Paz, Makati City

Girl in a jacket

This doctor shares her life experiences through poetry

The following #POPCreators entry was submitted by Dr. Chelsea Elizabeth Samson. Submissions under POP! Creator Community appears “as is,” without any editorial intervention.

Dr. Samson works in the field of health management and technology in the Philippines and advocates for human connections in the healthcare system. Alongside her primary functions, she pursues civic advocacies as a brand ambassador of Kandama indigenous weaves and as a Global Shaper under the World Economic Forum. She has been writing poetry since the age of 12 and has continued a love affair with arts through her painting and poetry.

Here are three different poems she wrote that reflect some of her memorable life experiences.


Pan de Sal

When I was a little girl, 

My mother told me that pain was a woman’s gift. 

I remembered then, she was baking bread.


Her hands fell soft, melodic

and as the flour wove through her fingers

She would hum little sounds that painted my world.


I could never figure her recipe, 

but she said that I would know when I was older.

And I have tried and tried since then.


I would never forget the taste of it, 

a brown smell and a salty comfort in my mouth

that lingered as I ran outside to play. 


Years passed and the days have grown long in me

and many times, I have made her bread, 

if only to feel that brown comfort again.


But life always colored mine with its flavors,

at times too light, and thrice too sweet to taste.

Heavy hands made it bitter, and biting to the tongue.


I felt like I would never know her secret, 

But the need to feel that comfort, and curiosity,

would not leave my soul.


And so once more I made my mother’s bread, 

But the salt of my tears and pain, of age

added to water, sugar, flour, yeast and eggs


There it was – it finally tasted like my mother’s.

Photo credit: Elly Fairytale from Pexels


Break Free


To the one who looks in broken mirrors – 

you can stare at yourself for days. 

Looking for a battle of imperfections

that you fight in so many ways. 

You find your own body broken

your face you line with scars, 

and yet you continue your own game, 

even when you’re putting yourself behind bars.

I know that you’re tired and empty.

You feel that you’ll never win, 

but I’m here to tell you

that this is the place to begin. 

It’s okay to be lost and at bottom; 

and to find yourself cut from your skin, 

because your truth will always reveal you, 

your essence from deep within. 

You need not to be perfect, 

in your struggle to find your space

You need only to forgive yourself

for doubting your inner grace.

Set yourself from burden, 

Let your soul be where you can rest, 

Let no one define your journey,

Because only you know yourself best. 

And if you find yourself wondering, 

if you can be all you can be

To the broken behind the mirror – 

Don’t worry, I’ll set you free.

Photo credit: By mail272 from Canva


“Don’t you miss him?”


I miss him in the moments, 

when I am in the middle of the crowd, 

and my hand looks for his. 

I miss him in the way

I long to hear melodies

that are sung out-of-tune. 

I miss him whenever I hear laughter

and remember the hours

we used to spend painting our dreams.

But I forget that I miss him

when I agonize in pain, 

through the silence of the night. 

I unweave him from memories

when I realize that I only have myself

to pick up the pieces of broken he dropped

when he chose to walk away. 

Photo credit: By arto_canon from Canva


DISCLAIMER: All views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the contributor/s and do not represent those of InqPOP! and INQUIRER.net. The InqPOP! staff assumes no liability for any error in the content of this material. Got something you want to share to the world? Get a chance to publish your awesome creations and share it to the world through our InqPOP! Creator Community program. Send us your stories, videos, photos, fan fic, and even fan art at [email protected]

For more details, read the POP! Creators FAQ page.

Subscribe to our daily newsletter

[forminator_form id="331316"]

Related Stories

Eloquence is a gift of silence
Your subscription could not be saved. Please try again.
Your subscription has been successful.

Subscribe to our daily newsletter

By providing an email address. I agree to the Terms of Use and acknowledge that I have read the Privacy Policy.

Popping on POP!