Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

I’ve been getting sick and tired of maybes lately. Been sifting through the sheets of fading affection, wondering how they’ve lasted for so long under the frustration of unrequited romantic attachment. A bell rings dimly, consistently, in my head as I lie here in bed thinking of all the maybes that have sufficed all this time: "you’re several months too late, my friend - you should’ve known she didn’t want you in the end.” I concur. Why did I let this drag on, a sleeping drunkard draped over my shoulder, weighing me down until I’m on my knees, just meters from her dilapidated apartment home? I can’t keep investing time on this so-called love if it skirts around honest, straight answers and gets drunk on my kindness. I’m leaving love at her apartment door, come whatever will become of her. Maybe this time she’ll think twice before taking advantage of the circumstances. I need some air. These maybes are fooling me into ...

I am prone to saying things. I run off my mouth when upset or even when moderately agitated by simple little problems. I am foolishly paranoid of the most ridiculous of troubles, always thinking that somehow the worst that could ever happen, does indeed happen. And it never really does. I want excessively for things to go my way, or even just the comfort knowing that she's there by my side. All she has to do is          say a word or two       my way - it's not like I can see her every day, so far as things have been anyway. I am sick, literally sick - throat itchy and phlegm clogging all possible airways, forcing me to sneeze and cough to some semblance of health. In the midst of illness, I let my mouth run away from me. As it runs, it lights the bridges and proceeds to burn them down. I am a shameful, sorrowful existence of a human being, not even able to grasp onto the fact that God has a handle on the circ...

I sometimes wonder if  the thoughts that house you  every waking hour of my day,  will somehow be crowded out by  increasing worries that come my way  as the days, weeks, and months pass by. I sometimes wonder if  the affection I harbor for you,  will continue to grow deeper as we  both grow busier with the tasks  thrown at us every given week. I sometimes wonder,  since we first met, if the number of thoughts we share are growing or dying out, as we come to know each other more, and get comfortable in the patterns we see each other show. I sometimes wonder if  the fact we're figuring  each other out is boring us  into soon complacency and  we won't be able to shake it off except through God's guidance. I sometimes wonder if you're still the only cloud in the sky that makes me smile  the way I do. I guess in the future I'll continue to wonder, a...

My thoughts, by default, are of her. She is the constant constellation of every meandering imagination             in the mind. And I don't mind. At all. It is quite frankly what you would call "love" - not so the contemporary form,                        but a love a bit more old-fashioned, conservative, reserved. Knowing her, it is all that she deserves - a proper form of love, that is to say. Every action I take is for her sake, for the sake of a tried, true, divine love. God knows best how to mold us, shape us, conform us                 closer to our former, purer being - and with Him as foundation, this romance will stand for eternity. Every daydream is ephemerally              touched by her beauty; and yet it is this God-given beauty - not of simple attractive appearance, but of true, rooted, b...

Has the novelty worn off? Has the flame of attraction and passion burnt out,                                   dimmed by the dull blanket                                   of routine? Has the novelty worn off? How could it,                       when I'm fine with the way we've been doing things? Has the novelty worn off? Or has it been replaced by something else,                        an itch to see things change for far better than what we have now? Has the novelty worn off? Do I really want more of the same? Maybe it's time I accept the change that's coming around. Maybe there's less now,                   ...

How do you speak for the byways and hidden vales of a sleeping city? As the billows of pale blue, tainted                                    smog grips the throat and chokes the words until an uncomfortable silence peppered by sickly coughs blankets the streets in industrial ignorance,                 strained, ember-tinted, dull eyes peer out in sentry-form alarm, fearing almost-morbid intent to punish, lurking like serpents in the alleyways. A smile is silenced by the grip                         of violence and degradation. The wise, outwardly clothed, seem no different from the vagrant soul. A plague of greed and gluttony                             makes victims of many. How do you speak for all these? How ...

I write my pains as poetry - mostly to hide the fact I'm feeling the loneliness in your silence. Ironic, then, that others, when they chance upon the lines and verse, find solace: "I'm exceedingly glad I'm not the only one", they say. Well I'm certainly not. Glad, that is. How can I find comfort in the fact that others feel the same? I see subtle signs, and it takes all I have not to call you out on it. I don't want to call you out on it. I just want things to change for the better, not for the worse. Not knowing is breaking me: I run all the possible reasons in my head fast enough to send my heart to cardiac arrest. I'm feeling the distance and I can't tell if it's because I'm shaking and terrified of what it means or if I'm reacting to the possibility that this was never meant to be after all. But what I'm writing is poetry - for all you know, this is all just fiction for you to feed your eyes...

I am lost in the turbulence of thought, meandering through the byways of drenched despondency. Words left unspoken take opportunity to ravage my heart with abuses until the bruises bleed outwardly - so to speak. But one thought - alas, how pure the thought! - of you has cured me. All is calm, all is settled. ~~~~~~ Short poem this time around. Not everything has to be like an essay. Cheers!

I'm not gonna end this the way you think I'll end this. I'm not gonna end this by looking over the horizon as the sun sets, my back turned from you as you walk away to an unsure future  without  me. I'm not gonna end it like actors after the final act, bowing out to the crowd as the curtain falls. I'm not gonna end it with your dying wish having me take away the dragging moments of pain that remind you you'll have to fight for your last breath before you die. I'm not ending it that way. I'm ending this as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible. You won't even notice the held-back tears as I write out every reason why my fears finally won out. I'm ending this quietly, with nothing but the scratch of my pen on paper, blotched by coffee drops and salt water. I'm not even anywhere near the sea, but I may as well be. I'm ending this, because I can't stand to fall apart so often in an hour, just as m...

I've begun the slow count     to the next starry night. The last I've seen the blinking lights were when I promised that I would find the right kind of life                         for me. And that was seasons ago. I don't remember the last time I ventured to look into the depths of God's flickering firmament. I don't remember how many times that I did, and was met with frowning clouds,                           content to deny me the chance                             to see the stars change. A certain knight once said that                              a man can  change his stars. For each moment where I'm left                       ...

I fight for your affections: every smile is a battle won, your peals of laughter a victory song, the simplest words uttered, a vital supply to the battlefield of romance. I'm unclear of your expectations of me -                                                              yet I fight. I fight - and whether they are the demons of doubt and uncertainty or the complexity of a very real adversary, I will make inch to grudging inch and hold a mile to your guarded heart. Not that I seek to destroy the walls that keep your affections safe, only that I am granted a chance to implore you to open the gate. It doesn't matter how many days it will take - patience is attrition taking on weeks, months and years                            in simple steps of one...

She agitates ink to passionate poetry: a smile and a slight tilt of her head                             shake violently a desire to write romantically 'til every drop of ink has been robbed clean off. Her eyes demand dedication on every page of the flyleaf of every journal filled with sentimental wordings only one so love-struck can ever bother          to immortalize with ink. She holds hostage my heart with every laugh she emits from her soul -       every note a chime of bells that send down shivers                 though winter has yet            to visit this time of year. And it visits when she draws near. Her fingers touch the tip of my shoulders and I feel every bit of warmth         from her warm-hearted soul.         How can I thin...

I don't see her as often as I would like to - and it's obvious to everyone that I would very much like to. Or  at least everyone but her. Maybe she's oblivious, who knows? She knows. And I would like to know what she knows and if what she knows is remotely related to me. I want to know if she knows I exist - am I a presence in her presence, as present as my thoughts just formed? Regardless of this knowledge - whether I have it or not - I will make every seeming inconsequential effort to fuel the barest hint of her interest in me as much as there is my interest in her. And when I have fanned the flames of attraction, I can bask in its warmth and hope to work a love tried and true and divinely given. But then, I don't see her often. 'Til this obstacle has been breached, I will hold my romantic notions. 12/6/13 ~~~~~~~~~~~ One from the past year. Cheers!

Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the fact you would've chosen me had you been completely free wasn't fact at all - just presumption: me being excessively stubborn, even though it's been clearly said in not-so-bold letters and symbols,                  words and sentences, that I just have no chance... right now. And that one-two punch of "right now"                  drives me up the wall so hard that people have resorted to calling my car                                      "Spiderman". The unfortunate truth being that I'm not so amazing, in comparison to others... maybe. I was so sure what to do had you plainly said "no". I was definitely sure what to do                  a couple steps in, had you said "yes". But the reality is not like that. ...

You're not a book: I don't need to read every one of your signals and wonder what my analysis is when I reach the end. When I push, you either bend or break and I'm left with specks of my once-affectionate, now-broken heart. Of course, that wasn't my intention. Is it ever? I just wanted                           to open up again, let the camera out and take my shot;               let the photograph develop alongside this God-given relationship. You're not a frappuccino                  or a cup of latte that I have to decide between before I can sit back and drink                           in relative peace. But I'll take both; the cashier keeps the change and I'll be better off with both sides of you. I want to know everything about you, so I'll keep ask...