If Only

Each morning I dry my pillows in the sun.

If only the moon and the stars can dry my tears,

no longer will I dry my pillows in the sun.

If only the moon and the stars can make my heart alive,

no longer will I cave in the darkness of night.

If only the moon and the stars can make me numb,

no longer will I hide in the bushes of love.


Never Love A Writer

Never date a writer for she will always remember all the things you did and did not do. She will also remind you of the things you should have done.  She might subtly convey the ideal man you never were. She will not ask you to be one, but she will always let you feel how much she wanted such a man. She will always remember how her heart almost jumped when you asked her on your first date. She will excite you with age-old books, great books murdered into movies, and heartfelt songs more than your next date. She will bore you with detailed narratives of what went wrong with her day and how her hope sank because of it.

She will laugh with you at your stupidest times, but she would love you just the same. She will never forget that first time you held her hand. All you’ve been through is shelved in her mind and carefully written on her notes. She will have her books. And her constant companion — notebooks with doodles of a funny version of you and your name beside hers. Random thoughts about you are carefully written on the margins of her books. Her hands will always be filled with blots of ink not nail polish and posh accessories. She might not have time to put on make-up just to be on time for a meeting because she has been engrossed into a literary masterpiece or some writing madness. She might even skip classes for it. But will always cope up. Her eyes will always be carrying those two bags. Yes, those two scary bags under her lovely eyes. Because she always gives liberty to her thoughts and emotions even if it’s already two in the morning.

She will always listen to your stories even if she finds it uninteresting. She will fake a smile and force herself to nod even if she wants to interrupt you and divert the topic. She will look at you in the eyes as if telling you that you are the handsomest man, but what truly occupies her thought was your wrong grammar spoken a minute ago. She will ask you to sit with her, not to be intimate but to explore the feeling of being close to someone so she could write about it. She will always remember how you leaned your face to hers, how you held her back, touched her lips, and felt the rush in heart. She will write a poem for you when she feels like, especially when you make her feel so loved, but more often when she’s down, miserable and vulnerable. She would always be thrilled to experience new things. It may be with you or without you.

She will fondly remember how you held her hand and awkwardly swayed into the music on your first dance. The way you look into her eyes is embedded in her memory. She will always recall how uneasy you were. She will always have that picture of you looking and admiring her from afar –how you can’t take your eyes off her. And on how you were mesmerized by her beauty on that white dress.

Never fall in love with a writer for you will never be the one thing in her mind. You see, she is enchanted by her thoughts, what comes into it, with hundreds of themes circling her brain, what literature to read, what to write, how to write, how to constantly combat the peculiarities of writing and living life. You might not just try to fall in love.

Take my heed, reader. Even if you fight, she will always be inspired. Her books are her constant companion. If she’s in the mood, she will write about what you argued. Or who knows she might even post it on her blog. Even if you don’t see often she will always suit herself in reading Tolkien, Garcia-Marquez, Neruda, Poe, O’Hara, Shakespeare or Austen. Even if you can’t help but flirt with other women, she will not nag you for doing so. Know that she is good at concealing her emotions and sealing her lips. She will always try to understand, but she will never tolerate.

Never love a writer for you might end up hurting yourself. She might have had imagined your engagement and wedding day. She might have led her mind on your vacation trips. She might have written chapters of your life together. She might have foreseen the two of you getting old. She might have envisioned you dying before her and overcoming loneliness. She might have, but that is all. For she will always be preoccupied of endless possibilities in the world, with or without you.

Never love a writer, lest she loves you more than her books, rich imaginations, impeccable skills, and passion. Never love a writer lest she tells you she is willing to spend the remaining half of her life with you. Never love a writer lest you know that deep within her heart, there is YOU.

But never fall out of love for her when you have at least one reason to love her . . . forever.


have you ever felt lost inside a poetry?

that’s what i felt when you captured my heart

i got dizzy and drowned myself in your voice

your words floated in the air like a smoke in a pot

have you ever felt lost inside someone’s head?

that’s what i felt when you held my hand

the sensation made me uncomfortably happy

it brought me to trees, hills and bliss

have you ever felt at home in a strange place?

unknowingly, that’s what you do to me

with you, i always feel home — never alone

how comforting the peace you bring

have you ever felt supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?

(whatever that word really means)

that’s what i feel this moment

diving into your hopeful smiling eyes,

i could only whisper: may this last forever


I fall out of the clouds

Down down down

Under my skin

I jumped off a cliff

Down down down

Under my skin

I leaped into love

Up up up

Back to the sky

i am without

in solace,
heart bathes
while somewhere, somewhere
thought travels

without warmth
missing laughter

rain —
my faithful companion,
rainbows —
my constant delight

times pass
like a funeral song
at the peak of day
i embrace death

at the time of moon
i come alive
across the sea
lies my reverie

and i calm myself
and gaze and long for
the beauty of whom
i am without

Of joys, songs and daydreaming

Joyful, happy days
What are them to Mays?
All seems fair and bright
Just as feathers in flight

Life’s always in tune
Like birds singing to June
Nothing feels wrong
Come and sing your song

As I sit and wait
I dread and dreamt
Of a faraway place
Lost in space





the night is young
we can still share a dance

the star-filled sky is beckoning
they utter melodies like a thousand cherubs

nothing is too hard or awkward
loosen up and live!

till our bodies fly and float above
nothing is heavy

we are weightless as feathers
numb as numb

vague as we already are
odd as we can possibly be

the night is young
but we are not

T. James Moore

I have heard it said, or more likely I have read, that we writers don’t find our voice until we’ve written one million words.

The first five times I read this it didn’t sink in.  I read “million words” and thought ‘it will take me forever to write a million words – I’m just not going to worry about it.’  But you know what I did worry about?  For the last twenty years I have lamented the fact that I did not have a real, independent and bona fide style.  I had no idea where this ‘style’ thing came from, how my favorite writers got it, why I couldn’t find it.  I was like David Banner trying to discover the answer to the tragedy of why I couldn’t make an important difference when things depended on it.  But even then I was no closer to becoming the Hulk.

For writers…

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