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...