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.

The thing is…

I am so happy. It feels like I’ve soaked in all the love this world could contain.

I am joyful beyond comprehension and doubt.

And that’s what keeps me from writing. I’m stupefied in this realm called ‘heavenly bliss’. I don’t know when I shall recover.

But hey, I will write soon. I will come back to you, first love.

Good Morning, Daddy!

You are full of heart-warming surprises. Every day is such a wonderful day to be with You. My smiles are getting bigger and bigger. Why is that? Is it because I am lost inside your big big heart that all I can do is jump up and down and get lost in The Dance?

I’ve never felt this way before. But as I can see, there would be more surprises and lots of love. This isn’t a dream for I am wide awake and ignited.

My heart is full of you! It’s bursting with butterflies and rainbows. Thank you for showing me the Wonderful Things.

Keep me awake. I wouldn’t want to sleep and miss you.



On Words and Writing

My words are boring, dull, and dust. It’s inadequate and wanting. As always. It fails to capture the accuracy of every moment, of a particular thought, and of the most intimate emotion. But who’s able to do that, anyway?

These words of mine have nothing new to offer the world. I know nothing and deserve no one to hear of me except myself. But my heart incessantly speaks to me. It says I must write. Hence, I must write and continue writing. Not for mere entertainment or to kill time, but for myself and the whisper that’s telling me to do so.

If I will not be able to let my thoughts be put into paper or published in this account, I will sabotage myself from itself;  a possible perpetual danger of shutting my own voice. It must be one of the gravest things man can do for himself. And I cannot do it.

I feel alive when words come to life. I discovered lately from Rilke‘s Letters to A Young Poet that one must truly write for himself, not for others. I ceased to care about its form. I feel like the greatest form of writing is being able to convey the intricate feelings and complex struggles of human emotion. So long as it speaks what the lips cannot fully utter and express in total abandonment intimate experiences to strangers.

Now, I’m beginning to write for myself without thinking of pleasing others or dreaming about being freshly pressed. LOL. But I admit I find joy when people read me. I appreciate that in space and time someone took notice of my writings. Or someone can actually relate to them. It amazes me that there are real people who liked my old boring and spontaneous musings. With that simple connection and my mind’s constant speeches, the urge to write becomes a wildfire. It causes me to feel more, love more, and see more… to open myself within myself and to the world around me.

Thus, I continue on this journey –summoning courage and embracing every moment. There is so much more to discover within my soul and to unravel in the world I call Hope, and to my home I call Glory.


Words are mere words. It is both simple and vague. Clarity and ambiguity live in its letters. From void to reality it takes us somewhere and leave us asking ourselves for its embedded meaning, value, and purpose.

A New Perspective (On Writing)

The Father’s voice is beckoning me to write. Not the melodramatic stuff that usually pops out of my head or swells from my heart. He is telling me to express deeper things. Those things that the two of us share. He compels me to release the intimate, express the inexpressible, and articulate the stillness.

I pray and hope that my pen will serve as a double-edged sword to pierce the hearts of the reader or a gentle hand to touch those who needs encouragement, and most especially to meet those whom God intends to have an encounter with.

This, I believe, will be an exciting yet thrilling journey.

Come and join me!


My eyes are filled with tears. I dislike and love this feeling. Your lingering presence inside of me is intoxicating. My heart will explode any moment. For so long I’ve suspended this time. I was trying to let go of myself and keep you at bay. I’ve dismissed your words like the daily news. I’ve no regard of its power nor benefit on me. I’ve ceased to care.

But you keep on whispering love. That still small voice caught me. I believe in you. I adore you. I love you with all of me, but I am tired of disappointing you. I think I have become a secret disgrace on your perfect soul. But you won’t buy my excuses and pathetic soliloquies.

You’re not like that. You are genuine. You are here to wipe the tears from my eyes and ease my heart.You had me once again.


Last Wish

I want to walk with you
Not the kind of ordinary walks made by ordinary people
Let us walk when the moon is still up
The stars still bright, like every four in the morning
When everyone’s still lying in bed

I want to walk with you
Not on ordinary pavements or at some crowded park
Where ordinary people come and go
Let us go and stroll at some strange island
Overlooking unknown horizon, against sharp winds

I want to walk with you, I really do
To hear your heart beat next to mine
To feel our hands dance in the rhythm of tide
To free our senses from the bars of the past
Fall on a trance we shall call romance

I want to walk with you
To see your face in the silent moonlit
To crack jokes only us understands
To seize this waking moment
We shall call ours

I want to walk with you
No one else but you
I don’t care what else we’ll do
We can let the time pass by tasting the morning dew
Or walk a mile ‘til our feet become sore

I want to walk with you
Without a care of the world,
Free from work,
Away from the city,
Quieted by the sea

I want to walk with you
Unlike ordinary walks we did for the last five years
Where we used to chase time, catch our breath,
And seize naught.

I want to walk with you
Unlike ordinary people like us
But like some crazy old friends–
Without care, drunk with laughter,
And perhaps, truly happy.

I want to walk with you, my dear
You know I really do
If we could have cheated death
And escaped time,
This last wish will surely be mine.