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yan Mar 2020
yellow ribbon, oversized glasses,
bent over a page in concentration.
now the ribbon naps on the table, letting
caramel cascade fall free.
pencil at her fingertips, tip resting on her lips.
Though my eyes tire on my own paper,
her gaze weighs heavy on my soul.
we're up!
and so is our time together for the day.
forbidden, we know.
but not even her lingering scent
bids me goodbye
or 'see you later'.
perhaps in my slumber will she
pass me a wink once more,
or sneak me a smile.
yan Mar 2020
cool liquids warm our throats,
send our bodies into unanimous bliss.
frequencies through the air
we all echo, throats raw with youth,
moving souls, aching chests.
this feeling could last an eternity,
and i’d ask for it to be prolonged further.
feel arms around me, envelope me into the darkness,
flash flooding of colours and blindness.
surrender to the frequencies and souls surrounding,
depressants causing depression welcomed as sedatives;
as stimulants.
for actions and words otherwise forbidden,
hold me, cradle me, like a codependent child.
let me ride this wave of euphoria into sobriety.
yan Mar 2020
bright and young.
but thick black curtains do not permit.
drawn tight like lips sealed,
only a single ray may be seen.
but bound to a corner i must be,
for that ray i seek i cannot reach.
wrists ****** from tugging at shackles,
breathing heavy as the dark cackles.
pray for cease of long-lived omen.
pray that soon the curtains will open.
yan Mar 2020
how wonderful is the essence of childhood innocence and naivety?
children who question even the simplest daily tasks you complete so many times you’ve lost count make you wonder what it was like to complete the task for the first time.

how wonderful is the simplicity in thinking, the yearning for knowledge that is yet to be obtained?
the question as to why you drink coffee instead of a babyccino or wine over juice allows for our true motives to be exposed; for we do not always consciously choose coffee over babyccino. the idea, to an average adult, would be absurd!

‘me, an adult, drinking a babyccino? how childish.’

but why wouldn’t you choose babyccino over coffee? coffee makes grown ups shake and trip over their words, eyelids jammed open exposing their bloodshot soul.

do we choose coffee for fear we’d be perceived as childlike if we’d have chosen babyccino? what is so terrifying about the ideology of childhood? why do we crave growing up so badly and with such haste? what is so shameful about the questioning of existence and looking knowledge in the eye, desperate to have the last word?

why don’t we choose juice over wine? is the taste of sweet comfort too overbearing for your tongue? does the colour of orange juice remind you of wednesday mornings when you come downstairs, keen to work with jellybeans in maths as your teacher had promised you the day before? or maybe the coloured counters which had been stored away for a while because a classmate was caught trying to eat one.  

the truth is, wine is bitter. no matter how refined your taste might be, there is an undeniable bitterness in wine which adults love to ponder, the same way they love to ponder over pessimistic news stories that are equally as bitter. they discuss the wine, using pretentious words to describe the undertones and how sensual it tastes, refusing to acknowledge the overt bitterness they are so eager to gobble up when they return to sobriety.

‘it’s too sweet,’ they’d shake their heads at the palm which offers apple juice, while eagerly smiling and nodding at the dark, tinted glass which induces headaches.

how about the brittle roll of grey, tossed on our doorstep every morning? the one you ask me to fetch you in the youth of the day, when sparkling sun-rays dance on my face? what do you make of the fine print that tells you what is occurring on the side of the world submersed in slumber while you’re in your wake?
what do you make of the numbers that tell you it’s warm outside?
why not feel the warmth from the orange orb above yourself?
why not dance under the small droplets of the ‘mist’ setting on your hose?

and why do we lose ourselves to the pursuit of validation, to the judging eyes of the streetwalkers which our eyes never lasted more than a second on when we were younger?
i now write as someone who is tired, ability to think in a childlike manner worn down heavily from the constant chafing of dawning adulthood. but i also write in the hope that small moments like these will recur, like clouds in the sky clearing momentarily for the sun to smile at me.

though looking up i’m often met with a vast, grey face, i shall continue to smile at the silver wrinkles, engraved by years of laughter and juvenile innocence.
yan Sep 2019
let me into your world of grief
of sorrow, angst, where bad thoughts keep
a world of haze and navy blue
bloodshot eyes, self confidence slew
let me shut your eyes tonight
tell you things will be alright

allow the silver to complement your tan
the silver that fits right in your hand
allow it to paint on an uneven canvas
paint away your blood boiling madness
where paint has dried into textured lines
where you’ve already painted a hundred times

paint a picture of silver and red
careful not to wake the dead
stifle the cry and paint a little harder
the night is quiet but the brush is quieter

let the red into your world of grief
of sorrow, angst, where bad thoughts keep
a world of haze and navy blue
bloodshot eyes, self confidence slewn
let the pain shut your eyes tonight
sleep, for things will be alright

— The End —