Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

I don't know when Infatuation became designated driver, with Attraction riding shotgun. I'm clinging on, a poor passenger painfully perceptive to the patterns present, breathing in open air. Right there - an unruly eagerness gnaws at my incorporeal bones of thought, agitating 'til anxious thought is garbled speech, stones swiftly thrown at the window while Infatuation drives me by. I don't know if she's noticed me, or has but chose to neglect my apparent advances. The remotest possibility of her glances suspect to my frantic window-waving. Infatuation and I are at the pier. Attraction's rockin' out to Lauv. I'm told it's crucial that I be here - how else would I know how to fall in love, if I don't know what it feels to be sinking? ~~~ Finished this May 5th, 2019. Didn't really want to post this 'til I felt sure about the wording. Cheers!

My dad once told me - let’s start over - My dad has told me on numerous occasions that when it comes to travel plans, the ones involving planes, I should always be a few hours ahead of schedule, just in case. It’s taken more than a couple journeys flying Han (pew pew) before the lesson held on    and settled in the eaves (coo’ coo’) of my brain. Which is insane,   I know. I’ve stowed away a memory where, at a tender age of barely three years old, I was at the opposite side       of the window pane. My grandparents took me to the city, for what only God knows, but we were there, enjoying a side of Jollibee.         The only thing eating away at me was the possibility that I get to see my parents again. Why else would we be in the city? Right? ...Right? Three hours turn to four, then five, at which point it was obvious in the sma...

As sunset ushers in the night we sit here silent in the light fading, embracing joyous rest that rises in the sun's fair flight. I ponder over what's been set in motion by God's usherette - of starlit evenings, well warm dawns, sheltered in mellow maisonettes. Not long after, I wake and yawn, convinced the sun's trying to fawn me out of house and home, to speak with God, face-to-face, 'fore I'm gone. So I stop, for His face I seek, recognize His sovereign seat, and listen to His holy speech - and listen to His holy speech. ~~~~~~~~~ Less words, more poetry. Cheers!

             In 2009 or 2010, my family and I decided                   to vacation in the French side of Canada, which was fine... except for the fact no one was capable of speaking a word       of French. Yet.       I  was better set in German. One night, in the streets of Montreal - cobbled in surreal silver linings - we took it upon ourselves to park our Chevrolet Suburban      in public parking.                                    At night. All the while watching the Montreal Orchestra play some Russian composer - Tchaikovsky, probably.                                  Big mistake. The public parking,     not the orchestral concert, which was excelle...

Writing notes on actual paper, the kind that rubs the palms of the hands, with a pen filled to the brim with smooth running ink, is like etching thoughts onto the mind like God's fingers on stone. Minus all the constant scratches and cross-outs, a bizarre map pointing to a deliberately               innocuous key to the most inane treasure.             Every measured mark        on parchment      is a covenant forming between now and then:     a covenant to remember what was left preserved for the hands to trace and the eyes to meet.      So I'm in a wee bit of an impasse: once I've finished writing this letter meant for you,            do I send it through    or keep it for personal use, my own memento                           ...

So I've heard that the difference between poison and medicine is in the dose.      I've also heard that food should be our medicine, the front lines against disease.    I've also  heard                          (bear with me) that the quickest way to a man's heart           is through his belly. Let's put aside the obvious      problems glaring at us            with glowing,              unsettling eyes - of the literal relationship of constant ingestion of meaty, fatty proteins and heart disease - and let's just sit back, relax: take this     on a more abstract level. Her words & actions        were saccharine: thick dollops of gelato filling a generously large bowl. It took more than a few years to finish, but I got throu...

I have no words for feeling like I've been abandoned for the fifth or sixth or seventh time already. I can't stand thinking about it, conflicted on whether I should head the opposite way from where I - I , not we - have progressed or keep going, pretending I haven't realized already that you care more for him. Even if I could pretend I haven't seen or even noticed it, my eagerness will die out without my even trying. All I feel is dying and I can't stop it from eventually laying there on cold, hard stone. Tears are fought against, but like Napoleon at Waterloo, I lose to the feeling that I've never been the one preferred for the eight or ninth or tenth time already. I am sick and tired of feeling as though nothing I am is worth the light of day. I feel stupid and insane for ever thinking even the least bit of effort could change things. Not even my words feel the same. I have no words. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An old poem from way back in...

Maybe it's time I say farewell; maybe the time, time, time, time, the time has closed upon us: me, the cause of too much fuss made to make this worthwhile, the fires of affection burned to ash. We were through before the first signs of mutual adoration had sprouted. Quite possibly, my own words have outed me from any possibility of riding out this train together. I've taken different trains of thought these days, it'd be odd to stay on          the same old forever. We have long since taken             different planes, walked separate waysides that are lesser tread by varied faces. Had we found proper letters and symbols, words and sentences to say                                             what we mean, would we still choose opposite                   ...

Preferences have a way of being adopted early enough                           to seem like family. In second grade, during a spelling bee contest, it came down to two      individuals in the classroom: me,                because obviously I'd be awesome at spelling things, and this lovely Russian American girl with brunette hair, a disarming smile, smooth voice, and sharp wit that quite easily spelled the word "equestrian". At that age, I was aware of a couple things: one, how baffled I was that I couldn't spell the word "equestrian", and two, how Alex, let's call her Alex, was absolutely mesmerizing for the rest of the school year. It would have been for the rest of my young life but unfortunately,                                     ...

Enjoy a rendition of one my poems! (Also, here's to the New Year! Have a great one, ladies and gents!)

Here's a video of me performing one of my recent poems! Hope you enjoy! Cheers!

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...