Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

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.