Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

The street is dipped in a stream of fading, weary, warm daylight. Memories of autumn cloud my thoughts as I stare at bright green, summer leaves covering sparse pockets of the Manila alleyway. Faux pine cones dot the railings of the building, unnaturally white,           metallic, and cold. It is nothing like the snow I know from when I was young.                   Yet all I know is gone, a near-decade of moments collected in what should be home. A kaleidoscope of daydreams                    roll, a setting of bare branches and ankle-deep winter. Deep breaths of sharp cold air momentarily keep off the shiver. Chicago winds bite into my cheeks,            squinting just to see past the flurries. I prepare to yell into the stark blue, crystalline wintry sky - The roar of obnoxious Manila traffic      ...

The sea of evergreen engulfs a petite, spriteful lady in a violet blouse, housed by sparks of bright         blues, reds, and yellows. She stands before me, mellow in the embrace of fading dusk light. Day was greeted with sly smiles and half-woken daydreams. Hazy, similarly lazy wisps of tea shade the room with barely-made memories of less than half a decade of hopeful, Romantic thoughts of the future. We wear our unsureties like a welcome sweater in Winter time. I sip the cup of tea as she gracefully sits beside me, relaxed as a cat sprawled out on a strip of day-time on carpet floor.                      She complains of sore feet received the other day, and I reply wryly if she spent the night practicing                               landing on all fours, to which she mockingly hangs her mouth in horror. We laugh...

You are not an afterthought. You are an undercurrent that flows through my conscious musings, the only cloud in the sky of my mind that holds hopeful rain. You are a spark that ignites the fireflies in this dim lighted café, safe in the warm embrace of your flushed, flickering smile. My ears prick at the sound of your voice, a pleasant noise that soon drowns out the cacophony around me. I see your face, framed by the rays of sun running through the spots of leafy green forest shade. Your fae form is soft, floating along bubbling streams. I’m in need of you, as fire needs fuel to feed flames. Dusk is lightly painted by your fancy, a humble servant on bended knee to knowing whimsy. We whisper against crisp air, recalling memories made in innocence and naivety, giving them better names to hide from posterity. There is no room for derision from unwanted opposition in this moment we claim in the name of weekend pillow-talks ...

The ink lies on still paper. One follows the markings and finds the shallow depth of its message. A cold, uncaring, numb apathy envelops every lightly etched page. Age matters little to the messenger. There is silence, a blanket to chill an afternoon of simple warmth. Emaciated arms, as ice, reach the heart, grips it with unfeeling vice, ripping it apart. The sun has left; the room is dark. Its weight bears down and immobilizes the place from a sense of space or time. Time struggles to crawl. It falls time and again, lifeless eyes staring into its futile attempts at empathy.               Breaths are raspy bed-fellows clamoring for proper position. It is too crowded in this room. Steps, thunder on hard, wooden floors, venture from home and into sparse-lit streets. The mind wanders down cold memories and distant intimacies; soon finds itself at an open door. Inside are glimpses of starlight and simple wonder. The message i...

He sleeps, desiring to chase frail dreams. Frail, for he dreams lofty, romantic scenes                   of him and her. He is uncertain of the future as he pursues her in earnest. Interest burns as languid embers         seated in his stone heart. He dares to yearn to be a part of her life. Strives and strives, does he, as days, weeks, and months crawl by. Sighs greet the morning as he wakes. She writes out dormant thoughts, prodded by sharp flaming touches of love. Love is an uncertain term that squirms and squeals in strange array from ink barely etched on paper.            She has never truly loved. What she knows passes for shadows of true affection found on holy ground, of God's great passion for all of man. She sees mere specters of the care that kisses the lives of loving, aging couples. Her brow furrows in concern: has she yet found such a love? Is what she h...

She sits across, arms folded as reserved guards on a quiet night. The warm yellow candle lights bathe her                 in enduring sunset. She offers time as a glass; conversation pours and fills it. Dinner displays itself, prayers offered, an incense climbing to God's throne.             Alone in a sea of revelers, they wonder what the future offers in a dying world, a twisted kingdom. She deplores the manners lost to lust, like raving wolves, and garish self-interest. "We are the makers of manners",                       replies he in dreadful earnest, steely, warm eyes hardened with resolve. They smile as night burns auburn. They smile, though torches crackle, holding the heavy weight            of encroaching darkness, clawed by unkind eyes that despise           pure light and ju...

Dust gathers with the dawn. Eyes adjust to welcome light. Night seems a fading memory that repeats time and time again - here at once, and at once is gone. He remembers her most during warm, doting dusk. Memories shared float through his mind at all hours, but finds her occupied in his thoughts as night invites the starlight to host every ephemeral evening. Night breaks as mellow sunlight streams through the cracks of horizon. She runs fingers through her rivers of jet black hair. She stares at her morning tinged silhouette, curious how he fares so many miles - whole worlds - away. Is he okay, in every sense of the minuscule word? The lax air of day envelops her as she writes heartfelt music, which tugs, tears, and ties us down in a bundled mess, unable to cope with the notes of musical articulation. He must confess, last he heard her musical canvas, he saw the firmament bend down, sparkling at each sound. He felt it was love. She knew it was emotio...

Tame were her words, aimed at the empty, cold air. Fading rage replaced with despair, she stays in place, unable to shake the aches out like one shakes hair. There is a soreness in her heart, where she can't place proper thought like pins on a wear-worn map. She ventures to curse as she ought, but it merits nothing. She reasons this must be her lot in life, yet hopes at one point                          that she will snap. Then, she can flounder as much as                       she so desires. The dim fire that fuels and tires her continues to burn within borders                                 that corner her heart.                            She stops and starts        with every...

Time has folded on itself, every step I take further into moss-covered, cobbled streets and surrounded by sun-bricked suites housing minute circles of education. I stop to breathe before the waves of nostalgia surge over me, threatening violence. Shaking, nearly shivering, I venture forward, unfamiliar faces overlapped by familiar thoughts. Memories trigger, my footsteps on timeless landmines. I find time has been most unkind to my memory. Emerging unscathed, though certainly fazed, my eyes continue to wander. Should I wonder any longer that all is the same, yet so very different? All is an ephemeral carnival of blurred reminiscence. Opportunities lost, mistakes cemented by foolish character, childish rashness burning countless bridges out of fear of persecution, only to gain sure tribulation on the soul. How much searching of my frail soul, did I go? Knowing this soul of mine could die, I sought redemption in Christ. And now, after a perfect number of...

Tainted kings have destroyed our innocence, corrupted our heads and hands, dipping all others we reach in a sea of unclean blood. Nothing stands under such baleful eyes. Some of us flee to unperceived mountain abodes, where, in separation, lies a purer air that surrounds us. All have come to despise us, unwise in their ill-influenced thoughts, shaped by the touch of corrupted crowns. We lose all strength to oppose them. When shall the True King establish Himself? He is tarnished by the roaring, black, frothing seas of tainted kings. He suffers long their poisonous speech. They rave, hungering frail meat to ravish. All behold incorrigible sin in disgust, the world reveling in the lusts of their choosing. A little while longer, and the usurpers shall be deposed. A little while longer, and the fiendish rulers shall tremble before the Heavens. In persecution, we rest in the promise of His coming. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Something a bit more religiously them...

The following are lyrics I've personally written for a cover. What that cover is, will only be shown after  it has been finished. Thanks everyone, cheers! I never thought you’d take me for granted, seeing how we gave first glances like a charity drive at the Salvation Army; we were always a first-class party though. You know, it was hardly the kind of thing one can mistake over a plate of cake and cups of tea every date we’d make. But I suppose it was part of the romance we ate in small doses. The closest we could ever get were small smiles and communication to say how we really feel; was it ever real? It never seemed to be no matter how many parties for two we’d do. We’d drive through emotions and regret it soon after. Laughter once had is lost in the sea of emotion. When did all this become mere commotion, a sight for passersby to whip their eyes at as fast as the lies you’d whip out per contact on a near daily basis? I’d call racist wi...

               They know – as far as appearances go, they have collectively accumulated enough knowledge                          to ground the entirety of a metropolis firmly on useful education’s wear-worn shoulders.                                 And yet, they are specters - shadows that haunt us every fairly late night and unwanted, glaring morning, five days (or six!) a week.                Enough sheets of paper to cover        whole mountain ranges and lay them to rest, carpal tunnels that span the width of the entire U.S., hours that drain them ...

We are troublesome constellations - we dim nights with unhallowed brightness that stings and blinds the eyes.                               Despised, yet we dare to                     cling to the moonlit canvas.                             Stubborn as dumb mules, we reach for other stars                     and mar them with our light.                                       We are fools, believing we are providing desired service every dusk 'til dawn.                     But we only spawn unabashed bias.                         ...

If you haven't already noted from the title, I will be discussing about something fairly personal (and ironically something I haven't really given much thought about 'til recently) on my personal taste of women. Note that I will only be talking about physical appearance , as I cannot claim knowledge as to the personality and character of the individuals pictured (though their roles in various films may have lent them to my preferring their type as compared to others). Also please note that, in the long scheme of things, one's personality and character far outweighs the physical appearance one may possess, in my humble opinion . Though it cannot be denied that physical appearance is what catches the eye for most. Moving forward! As one can tell from the pictures, girls that have slightly roundish yet strong features, along with brunette or dirty blond hair, and eyes that could probably keep all the stars swimming in their spherical universes, really catch m...

In case you wanted to know what I look and sound like hahaha! Cheers!

Do not stop and wonder about affection abandoned to the capricious, cutting wind. Do not stop and wonder  why the firmament, full yet fleeting, shines dim. Do not stop and wonder if all the spoken silence is not quite enough to convince  that the heart shown is hollow. Do not stop and wonder where she will go,  somehow lost in pristine snow and barren woods, or if it’s well to follow. Do not stop and wonder whether moving forward  is still the better recourse that was decided upon and taken. Do not stop and wonder whether there’s any more wonder left to admire aside from her -  and yes, you are mistaken if you insist that she is all that’s left for admiration. No. Do not stop.  No more wonders.  She is no longer yours to ponder. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Initially written on my Tumblr page. Didn't have the time to wait 'til I was home to write it. Had to write it immediately ('cause inspiration and all that jazz)! Cheers!

The tall, white cups of coffee - the stark black font and emerald, spherically encased mermaid that tastefully adorns them - are blurs in the foreground. She hurries in the backdrop of a somewhat crowded, picturesque scene in the coffee shop. She doesn't stand out normally - there is nothing at first glance that would give reason          to lavish even the least attention on her. And yet, like an apple landing squarely on              Isaac Newton's head, eyes are drawn to her. She appears buoyant, studious,                beaming, quiet, coy, and indecipherable         all at once. She is moonlight illuminating the dim nights and silent stretches of time. Unlike the coffee line, all stands still.          Refills are topped off the coffee cups. Thoughts are written on somewhat stained pages, undeniably drenched i...

She was happiest without me - her somber silhouette somehow served to cement that I see only what I was allowed to. And all I was allowed to, were expressions of "almost"                                   and "maybe".           My thoughts dwell and at some moments, swell at the idea that there may still be affection in the eaves.                         But I deceive myself, as it is through markedly unsaid conversation that bring to light the truth that haunts my nights: it was never real. And it never will be. She is, after all, happiest without me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lots of book-ends sort of poems lately. I think. Not sure. I'll get back to you on that. Cheers!

Our eyes met. And in that instant, the fear that something was lost felt like a cold sweat exacerbated by the chill wind of a particularly cloudy day. I could feel my heart sinking like a ten ton brick. As she continued to where he was sitting, I felt for an instant that all my efforts were for nothing.                  I'm back at square one. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Somewhat old poem. Take a guess when this was made, for those of you who are familiar with me and my going-ons~ Cheers!

I thought I was invincible, that I can love any girl I choose and not feel the consequences       or groan from the bruises of having my heart beaten and broken right along every heart I take and leave for granted. I thought I could save      every girl I gave my heart to - that my presence in their lives is the key to bliss              and limitless opportunity. I thought romance didn't need much in the way of investment - pay a couple emotional moments her way every once in awhile, and everyone would reap the benefits. Well, here I am. Here I am, broke and broken. Here I am, tears left flowing until I'm dry and cracked and left outside every door    I can find, just to ask for my heart to be fixed right back to how it used to be. Here I am, asking forgiveness for every slam of the sledgehammer to your once-guarded, now shattered heart. I thought falling in love   ...

I've bid my treasure of thoughts away on memories, stored in quiet corners of my mind that no one bothers to explore anymore. And for good reason, I suppose. Come winter season, we open the stores of memory as though reviewing them, caressing the faded edges, will remind us that today - the only time we really have - isn't so bad. And we succeed. We smile, glad that the same old fears - and the joys that come with it - haven't changed. We  haven't changed, not really. There is some form of us that flows with time, bending to the rhyme and reason of at-times pleasing, more often unpleasing, occurrences in our lives somewhat seeming so short. But in our core, we know for sure that we haven't changed. And I suppose that is the hope we cling to, reinforced  by the memories we've stored in each of our little corners of mind. So I don't mind if anyone hasn't bothered to explore my treasures of thought - and now, at once, memor...

It's clear to me how much your affections are worth. Every smile is a gem I am fortunate to steal a glance of. Yes, you've heard correctly: I say steal, for I am a thief. Yet I'm far too selective to make a living. Even worse, cultivation of true love and affection requires resources and skills that make the occupation of thievery highly irrelevant! So I suppose I am a one-time thief. I steal glances you notice, writing poetry like currency relevant only to us. I do my research, learning about your life, your quirks and unsure thoughts - and soon, I can't help but wonder if I won't somehow fall prey to your subtle theft. It's only until there's nothing left of my heart, that I realize I've let it happen. And I'll let it happen again, for all you are worth, all your worth in the end. ~~~~~~~~~ Originally written 7/10/2014. Made some proper changes to fit my current taste in poetic writing. Cheers!

I'm drenched to the bone by my cloud of thoughts, raining down on me. Remember when I used to say you were the only cloud in the sky that makes me smile? Feels like I won't find              that for awhile, with someone else. Looks like I'm back on my own again. Why am I retracing old                 steps again? I'm sacrificing happiness for a few shades of pale, grey, unsettled nights.           I'm cold as ice - I can't shake off the shivers                                 this time. I'm still standing in the rain, wondering why I'm so unkind         to you and me. I don't have any easy answers        to give. I suppose I'll still stand here            'til I give up, give out, and watch the only cloud left ...

I'll settle with the silence, while I wonder if things've changed. I presume to think love comes and goes, but love just stays the same. When I've let it grow so quietly, in the shelter of my heart, this love I know has come to speak of the truths that are a part of our lives, while standing side by side like we always do. This love is old and new all at the same time. You know it's worth the wait, this idea of soulmates and lovers that find each other, all in God's own time. Let's simply shake the solace off the corners of this house. The sky turns a slight shade blue as the snow falls from the clouds. And yet my love warms quietly, with every action and each thought. I cannot help but stand and speak of this love that I've sought for in our lives, while standing side by side like we always do. This love is old and new all at the same time. You know it's worth the wait, this idea of soulmates and lovers that find each o...

A woman in song  is the only time she  ever truly speaks  from the heart, rather than  with the appearance - and  it is the only time men  ever truly listen,  rather than see. The question then  must be: does the man  understand what he hears -  does the woman  understand what she speaks? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Surprise poem for you! Cheers!

Loneliness is a catheter siphoning the blood, draining the life as though doing so will somehow make room for better things to fill my veins. But all I feel is a steady fade to grey, a numb dull pain that resists any other desire than to assuage the despairing thought that one is alone. And so I let fill the thoughts on other things, distracting scenes keeping me busy enough to ignore the ravaging thirst for company. Simply put, I seem abandoned, left in a still, stale forest and equally lost. I keep thinking I hear voices when I know beyond a doubt that the voices aren’t voices at all, just my desire for company making its regular unanswered calls. I stare into the white space between my words and wonder if I can fill them with what loneliness has siphoned out of me. I stand stark still. I’m here, I’m alive – my thoughts, my wants, my will. I aim to kill what little left of feeling resides in my head. It’s the only way fo...

Before you were Beauty, you were silence swelling                      to Symphony; long, lingering notes floating in the once still air, slowly filling it with the effervescence of                     beauteous harmony. We calmly recall pleasant memories as your melodious voice speaks seeming sweet nothings to maintain meaningful                     conversation. But the words are not mere nothings, neither are they saccharine phrases left out to captivate and irrigate shallow thoughts. No, your words are well placed shades of color to our conversational canvas. And this arduous oil painting of frequent correspondence leads us, naturally,          if not with hesitation, to the overtones of romance. In an instance of somber song, we find the shards of our more-than-      ...

Your kiss is cream, moist and cool to the touch - leftovers licked on lips. Our fingertips meet, hands as anchors, steady, assuring, soft in the intertwining of our fingers. Your unassuming, modest scent lingers, filling the room, coalescing to daydreams and afterthoughts of home. You comb through your pillowish hair, elegant in its unabashed simplicity, settling on your light shoulders. Your fair figure smolders and I struggle to catch my breath. I try to catch in photographs the memory of you, as you idly rest on the edge of the mattress. I caress careful, crafted imagery in hopes you'll see what I see when I look at you. Ink spills over in pages, testament of ageless, singular, passionate romance. We spare a glance out the window, a peek of sun in the milky dawn greets our eyes. We sigh as we lie here. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There are very few times I write poetry that is as blatantly sensual as what I just wrote. Forgive me for bashing you...