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Yani Jun 19
"And what if I lost my sight..."

Have you ever wondered how it would feel to be blind?
Without a sense of sight, will you be left behind?
Would the people around you, to you be so kind?

"And what if you've lost sight of me..."

Do you know how the night feels without the moon?
Without the sun on a happy morning in June?
I don't wanna know the answer, it's just so soon.
Questions
Yani Jun 19
I'd like to tell a story
of the worst tasting shrimp
I've eaten this eternity.

It's hard to separate the shell from its meat,
when they seem to go as one
like those words thrown in that beat.

It's gets even harder to swallow,
especially with water draining
out from you in the mellow.
Yani May 30
A night of drum beating,
maraca shaking and guitar strumming,
who would've thought
that a moment sought
could unveil thousands of possibilities.

The odds in our favor,
without cards on the table,
unstable as it is,
a hope through the night exploded
like jenga blocks stumbled.

With a much wanted polaroid,
comes the 'see you again' likelihood
but take it slow, take it slow;
enjoy the night and each other's sight,
put emotions on hold, don't let it show.

A few selfie and some jokes thrown,
we've explored the streets like its our own;
realized something have grown
yet we say goodbye --
the words we spilled like a mourn.

I can't say its inevitable but free falling unto you is just highly probable.
Plays falling in love at a coffee shop
Yani Mar 8
Meet me for sometime,
cut the chase of what ifs and hows;
maybe we'll star in a pantomime
in a world only us knows,
where two is not a prime
but will 'us' be what this encounter follows?
Will we be given a chance?
Yani Jan 7
At first there were two,
two just became a multiplier,
of those red fireflies
dancing to the sick beat
of zooom, broooom and wshhhh.

They flied further as I rolled forward;
left to right and right to left
they wiggled, never overlapping;
just above, below or beside the other
it created beautiful chaos.

Trapped in time of ****** stars,
accelerates as orange turns green.
Yellow trails, red fireflies
sped past through me;
everything became blur.

The pair of red fireflies flew unstoppably, and that was the last thing I saw.
Yani Dec 2018
There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
is this a drive to speak for the unspeakable,
or an urge to spill words like blood from a wound?

There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
is this a trigger for a wreck that is to come,
or a spark of idea from a wicked mind I can't own?

There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
I can't scratch it like a card, gambling for a prize,
nor can I treat it with alcohol, poured on rashes or drank in a rush.

There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
it clouds my visionless eyes, naked or on lenses
it agitates my trembling hands, I can't smunpew.
  Dec 2018 Yani
Ally Ann
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't
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