Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

She fills the canvas of most thoughts better  than pages filled with poet's words: a dash of laughter and shining smile, eyes that rival every star in the firmament, hair that frames like the clearest night, and countless more details only so much words can hope to define. Yet the temptation to forge word after word to make real all these painted thoughts of her lends chase to every supposed relevant term just to accompany the next and the next and the next... She is a masterpiece, God's handiwork, and all one can do is still the pen, stand in awe of the perfect imperfections. Oh, the temptation to carry on with more and even more words! But one must be content or else hazard ruining God's artistry with arbitrary expectations. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I have no words to accompany this piece. Enjoy it! Cheers!

I haven't had the time to ask you what you meant. If it was all meant for nothing, or the scores of conflict were somehow lost along the sides of road instead. You hang your head like guilt wrapped around your fragile neck. Somewhere we forget to laugh and yet we stand on subtle steps found. Tears like stone, peter out 'til the clouds smile on us. A bit more quiet now. But the folds of blanket left remind me of the cold that kept us, held us, 'til the time comes to ask what was meant, after all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I'm aware I haven't written anything in a few months, but considering my work with a small university orchestra, I've been kept very busy. Hope you enjoy it!

Her mind was reeling, in a state of retropulsion, as though stepping - no, leaping  back would save her from dwelling on the implications of what just happened. The enemy - so-called -             called for truce,      even friendship. She has known him these past three years and not once has he made any indication of backing down. His sense of pride, like a wall, didn't allow the very idea to enter through the gates. And yet now, when she chances upon him in the streets, all she sees on his face is bewilderment,              even confusion. When he chances upon her,                        his eyes fill with anger - but does she see a hint of embarrassment, dancing in the corners? Her curiosity is getting the better of her -                     she demands him, upon...

Its implications, heavy as a royal decree,             foreboding in stance. Determined was the young man                          to stand unwavering     from where he stood. He would not allow poison                                  to sicken his character,               malleable enough as it is. The calligraphy written in his heart         could be found as lifeless as dry bones before he             comes to notice. Rather than burn, he severed               the bridge of baleful influence.             He was only as good as the company he kept. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "calligraphy". Hope you enjoyed it! Cheers!

Is there ever a way to forge a new path from present,           as of picking friendship from former love - or so man calls? Can a burned, faint crossing make new its old beams?             Let old wounds open and bleed to nothing more - as of the face of marble David,                   can it be so? Refresh frail bones, give breath to one still dead, am I God that such acts           can be taken in success? And yet I desire such a miracle, tho I am still blind to the purpose, the looking glass yet unclear. Humbly I ask if He wills such a thing. I wonder after a sign to be seen,                           a beacon to a heart humbled.                          Yet if it is not the time,         ...

She took the sea for an ocean,            the shrubs for the trees, and the streetlights for the stars. All she wrote, what she knew,                she only knew. Failed - tho not yet - to wait     for the fog to fade.      First time she was thrust outside the thick fog,      she grasped to see and all she came to see            were strange in feeling. But what she knew, she knew only, that she must move forward.    Slowly, not-so-steadily, whimpers and prayers, and tears for home.                  She kept her eyes open, and soon she knew the deepest ocean,                  the darkest forest trees,                    the brightest stars.           ...

I am looking at the phone accessory you gave to me the day you decided to wander down the campus that wasn't even yours on a few festive days. I'm wondering why I'm bothering to put it back on the phone when it's been so long since we've talked - been so long since love seemed lost. It's seems so superfluous to bother to think about it. Maybe I just want to think back and remember the good times? Maybe I'm finally moving on while still holding on to what has been left behind, lying around my apartment, hidden like memories? Pockets of laughter, bright flashes of a smile, echoes of a touch - that's what I remember. But maybe I'm moving on and this is the best I can do. It's the best I can do to thank you for more than what's left. Maybe that's the best that can be said. ~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "superfluous". Thanks for reading! Cheers!

Hey. How are you? Still at ____ University, going through your pre-____? Have you been doing well, helping out at the ______ volunteer group? Have you been going out more, finding new friends, having fun? Has life treated you well? I'm sure it has. We haven't talked in almost nine months, there's a lot I don't know about your life anymore. But I'm sure your life has been going pretty darn well - I mean, I've had my hands full with some positive developments at school and I just can't imagine you not going through something similar. Life throws challenges and we rise up to meet them, right? Heard early on that you found yourself a new boyfriend. I wasn't so lucky. But then again, I was the one who wanted to break up, right? I guess I got what's due. At the same time, I'm still pretty optimistic I'll find someone worthwhile - and I would have to guess that you already found someone who's worth your while. We're growing up and g...

I am losing it - my thoughts are in a state of hypertrophy: explosions of whimsical scenarios playing out second after second. I can't keep up, I'm slowing down. I'm stumbling, stumbling, stumbling, trembling over this thought and that. I am seriously losing my mind to the disease of these romance-laced thoughts. I need to stop. I need to breathe. I can't keep thinking of these things, when it seems too inconvenient to bother. I want to be better - I've still got a life to keep sober. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "hypertrophy". I was planning to replace it with "cancer" but I figured it'd be better this way. Cheers!

Nonchalant, imagines a moment where she's got her guns blazing,                           facing down illusory enemies                    that come at her every which way. She's high-tailing it to nowhere, door after endless door -                               open and close, open and close. She's burning through memory faster than a chain-smoker does cigarettes.              It's not until she stops to take a breath that she notices the young man sitting on the bench only a few feet away from where she's standing. Hesitation: dead weight holding her from considering a new way out of nowhere.                                    One step towards him and... ~~~~~~...

The wind blows, shaking him 'til he wonders if he'll be able to stand. He wraps his scarf tighter around the collar of his coat, a mask against the biting air. The city streets are not any kinder, pedestrians pushing past him just so they can get away from the kerfuffle that blossomed behind them, flames and smoke and roaring dragons included. He brandishes a blade, like a sliver of the very firmaments - he's done this before. He knows what he'll be doing, as he passes through like salmon up a roaring stream. The dragons roar louder, like a display of smoke and mirrors high-tailing their way to his side of the street, exponentially increasing confusion 'til it meets him at his feet. And all he does is wipe the dust off his shoulders. Time is irrelevant, as he sends the essence of the stars into their hearts, a supernova come to life, letting it all purify the putrid light emitted by the dragons' flight. It is never an easy thing to figh...

He prepared the best dish one could think of: pasta. Had it all worked out in his mind, like Holmes on his last stand, desperately making every effort to keep himself from making even a single mistake to the one thing that could seal potential passionate, burning love. The sauce, rendered to near-perfection; the pasta, soft enough to placate the critical mind; the venue, shady enough to keep the sun off their line of sight. It's all set. There they are, in the shades of trees, almost caressing them to  a near-sleeping state. He can't wait to let what he created speak for itself. And speak it did, as the sauce mixed with the pasta, the very smell beginning to discombobulate her into comatose lust - for the sauce-drenched pasta. Before they know it, she has finished the meal, once-starved and now thoroughly satiated. He is surprised as well, all things considered. Did he really make a meal this well delivered? ~~~~~~~~~~~...

         He opens his eyes, hiding from the ray of light that determine to drag him                         out of sleep.        But he lifts the blanket                            over his head,                 the warmth still holding                      him to the bed.            A few more minutes               to forget what it's like to be...                He doesn't feel a thing                     as he eats his meals                        throughout the day -     ...

Remnants of the rain touch the tip of her shoulders as she enters the teahouse, lowering her umbrella, ready to let it shake off the gloom that accumulated             on its blouse. She walks in, pensive, thoughts running marathons in her mind as she mechanically           heads to the counter.         She makes an order, the woman at the counter nodding,                      knows her, knows the pattern. Lightly she sits at a table far enough away                                                    from the door and everyone else                                                     ...

                 "Du bist meine Freude und mein Schmerz", like passion fettered by foolishness,                        uttered he. Oh could it be that what hurts is not the restraint but the emotion          beating against the railing, like a raging phoenix, smoldering                               in its own flames. It isn't the right time, it isn't the right time -         so he chimes over and over,                        feeling slightly better that                           he lets himself hold back what could have been a euphoric                           ...

Drops of vodka leave his lips, careless and suicidal 'chuters aiming straight for wooden floors. He shakes vehemently, beating back the bitterness that creeps onto the surface of his tongue - rough as earth. The near-empty pub shines, like warm lanterns onto the streets, covered in sheets of unwelcoming snow. He likes it here, despite the lack of company: how the bartender laughs with all he has, body, beard, and everything; how the young lass passing the drinks and victuals actually gives the time of day, at this time of night to the lonely souls huddling towards the fire light; how the tavern fellows, huddled over their half-finished meals, sip at their alcohol-filled mugs, speaking of grand imaginings of a better world. It is not much, but it is alive with love, warm and not entirely induced without vodka. The lass passes by, picks a plate, and places it down in front of him, giving a kind smile - yes, this warmth is something like vodka. A deep red meets ...

She was never good at keeping herself from meddling. How she loved to meddle - every time he was around, she poked her nose into his affairs: wondering why he did one thing                   and how does this thing work and why couldn't he just do it her way?                              It frustrated him to no end           that she felt it her rightful duty,     her holy   purpose to   mess with his affairs. The more he worked, the more she interfered. Soon, he was lost in a sea of "thou shalt nots" that he couldn't get away from, even if he held a restraining order on her, even if                    all he wanted was to break it off. Antidisestablishmentarianism, damn you!         It'd have been better if they were frie...

It is a deep, dark forest,                   hiding secrets          like no one's business, where he lets the bow              run across its surface. He lets it run once more, twice,             just to ease his mind. He checks the strings, like he's ready to rain sonic havoc to absolutely no one                              but himself.                     He double-checks by letting his bow run - again with the running! -                across the strings,                           and they ring                      with the sound of fifths. He's in tune...

So let me get this straight: You want me to talk about how society has always been sick, but is now more like a cancer patient                           than a child with a cold?       How society beats itself up, preys on good and innocent things, essentially lobotomizing itself                to oblivion? You want me  to talk about society?                You're joking, right? What have you been watching?                        "Bee-do"            Oh.                That explains everything. You despicable little...            never mind. Agh, what have I got myself into this time..? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "bee-do". Yeah, I couldn't ...

The scritch-scratch of his pen as he wonders what to say next to capture love on lasting ink drives the thought out the door. Tries too hard, shady thieves                  under his eyes steal sleep;       considers caffeine to stay the hands of good-intentioned knights.           He doodles caricatures of fast-food burgers and milkshakes, accessory to good moments he recalls with the lovely girl. But what he tries to capture - the essence -                         he can't seem to do.                It's the same old sort of tune so why does he try so hard? Watch as he writes, then crumples, then sends half-shapen thoughts away.                   He won't let up, day after day. Love, is it? Or madness?           ...

She could not stop reading the letter. For pages it went on and on about how his love has burned                       to the ground:                   the Babel of romance breaking down in fire and confusion. He reasons that he has his reasons but no matter the logic behind the words, she could not make heads or tails                          of the true meaning                         of his letter.                 Does he hate her? Did she do something wrong? Was the moment of "forever"                   just a blip of time erased by a single word she wished                               ...

It was always a matter of taste, but if you were to ask him, taste had nothing to do with it. He favored the flavor of vanilla in his tea: made creamy by generous outpourings of milk and honey. It was a day-in, day-out preference that never occurred to him would change when he felt himself adventurous this one particular day. He wondered, "why not try chocolate?" and thusly decided to do so. It didn't take long for him to realize that his preference started shifting, as he continued to take the same flavor he decided to change that one autumn day. One week, and he found himself using a term he thought he would never use for anything as trivial as this: infidelity. Weeks, months, years, he's spent only tea filled with vanilla and honey. One slight moment in time rendered previous experience unnecessary. He has given in to the charms of tea, chocolate and warm. He has changed. He's not sure if this is a good thing. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~...

He starts, stops, stutters. His fingers tap-tap-tap the book in his hands, the one he kept to while away time in a corner of the cafe he frequents every day. Gets up, sits down, fidgets. He wonders if he was found out, the espionage mission gone wrong due to a slight cough he emits on an off-kilter supposition that no one will notice. Looks up, looks down, frantically blinks. He nearly panics at the thought that all one needs to know about him is laid out on his sleeves, on his torso for all to read. Deep breaths: inhale, exhale. He starts a slow march forward to a table for two, seated by one whom he's seen come in day after day like a stake-out for her prey. Too many thoughts, one thought, none. His expression, grave, as he emits a voice he never thought was his own. She looks up, he looks down, contact. One question, "Yes? I didn't hear quite correctly". He clears his throat, apologizes then says "What's your name?" She ...

Fade to light, slight chatter in the eaves of a thought not quite formed but definitely forming. The focus, still blurred, soon starts to shout sharp details aimed at lacerating the muddled-ness of early morning. Little mutters of "What of it?" and "Don't bother" coalesce into a final "I got it, I'm going"; the pitter-patter steps inside turn to the clip-clap of a fine leather, crisp Berluti march. The warm sun crawls and places a hand on the shoulders, the air nipping at the cheeks, barely keeping the eyes open to see. By now the thought seems to stick out like a sore thumb intent on being seen and heard and battered about - a surrealist pony-figure breaking at the seams in a splash of genius on one fine morning. ~~~~~~~~~~ Had a friend give me one word to use for a poem. The word was "stick". Hahaha, this was a perfect creativity experiment. Thanks for the help! Cheers!

I'm slowly beginning to understand the frustration of having your parents have particular expectations concerning your potential partner. Most of this frustration comes from knowing that your standards and theirs don't seem to entirely match up - no matter how hard you try to have it do so. When I've come to accept this, it only frustrates me more as just accepting that there are differences mean that, if I want to please my parents, I have to hold back on what I may feel for another. Or even hold back on any idea of interest. Sometimes I feel that my only answer to the circumstances is to start fresh - start where both of us, my parents and I, have no basis to go on. I find out more about the girl, about her family, about what makes her a person while my parents sit back and do their own thing for a few years. Maybe I just need that fresh start. Maybe keep things on the "down-low". Maybe wonder about the magical little things that seem to coincide with th...

The following is not in iambic pentameter, unfortunately... Can I contain this love that dares well up the depths of my soul - like a fire ablaze and consuming all that one comes across? Would it be proper to assume me crazed? Has madness taken hold even my eyes, has sleeplessness taken my very tongue? Am I now a vagabond, a ruffian despised, not worth time or place, for ladies to beware of? Lo, I fight specters and apparitions - they compass me 'round, they bind me with chains. I seek freedom in your eyes, my fascination. One look spell-binds me to your lovely name. But will any understand of the anguish I bear as another advances and I am left bare? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Take the piece for what it is, as it is a very familiar theme that I'm sure everyone can relate with. Such is life.

The following is a few lines from a poem I'm planning to perform if ever I get a chance to. Because I really like how this went down, I'm making sure my creativity isn't stolen from me and that is why what you see before you is only a bit of what I would actually do when I get the chance. Be that as it may, enjoy the few lines I've written for this piece, cheers! I'm not trying to be ludicrous or anything, but when I was thirteen, I really did have my first love. I say "have", but to be honest, I didn't really have  her. It was more like I was standing on the sidelines, watching her go from guy after guy after guy; wondering the whole time that if I tried would I be the next guy...? To say that she was the only one I've ever fallen in love with would be a lie flying through my clenched teeth like an innocent man desperate to escape so he can live out the rest of his life with a loving family. That is to say, it's probable to ann...

They told me that everything will be ok, the moment I stepped outside the car and walked towards those glass-covered doors. Who would have thought that I'd go home sore all over, losing composure, and breaking down faster than the abandoned car I saw down the road? Every weekend was the same - wake up one Saturday, wonder if there are any clothes that don't stand out, and head into the car with my thoughts somewhere else: in the clouds, with the rain, and no one to feign interest. It was safe, in a way. My parents paved the way down to the pews that weren't too far from the exit, but weren't so far from the front that we couldn't listen to the preacher man preach. But my thoughts were elsewhere... When the potluck came around, my friends and I would go to the back of the church, right behind the spot where the preacher man would preach. I didn't mind. But I began to realize that the other kids, the more popular kids, were elsewhere... They...

This upsets me more than you know. Upsets me more than you know so let me out. Just let me out. I can't stop myself from screaming out awkward nonexisting obscenities at the wall. I'm gonna fall. And it's gonna hurt. It's gonna hurt so bad. Just let me talk it out. Just let it ring on out now. I'm telling you I'm running out. I'm running out of here so don't stop me. Just don't stop me. There's no way out but the steps that I take are showing a way back to what back to what I believe is right. And I'm feeling better now. I'm feeling better now. Just let me scream it out. Just let it ring on out now. This upsets me more than you know. Upsets me more than you know so let me out. Just let me out and find it out. ~~~~~~~~~~ A need to run away and find what made life so beautiful. I wonder how I'll use this.

It was the simplest break-up one could possibly have. Quiet too. No real lash-outs, no angry confrontations that end in equally passionate embraces - or smoldering hatred as both parties leave. There was none of that. It was just me, after the message has been sent, fighting with my own emotions. The doubts that haunted me in the relationship are gone - only to be replaced by increasing frustrations: what do I do now; is there anyone who is worth it; am I willing to wait. Question after question hounds upon me. There are no answers, not yet. The future is nice enough but somehow, I'm too impatient to wait for it. I look back on the message I've sent - explaining, imploring, and going into great detail as to why I am making the decision - have made  the decision. The way she replied, I may as well have just said "It's over", and go on our merry ways. But I can't just do that - I needed to explain, and I did, to the best of my ability. And now I'm...