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Yani Mar 2019
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 2019
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
Yani Dec 2018
Heaven made her
every piece fragile;
little did they know
parts of her were lost.
I think I'm sick.
Yani Dec 2018
"At some point, I was falling for you and I would've fallen hard for you if I chose to; I did not. I chose not to because I don't want your soul scribbled on every paper I have. I chose not to because of the line I've drawn before it even happened. I chose not to because we're better off as friends. We work things better this way and I don't want you to be heard in songs I would and could compose. I chose not to because it will be hard for me to run away from it, from you. You became an exception to my rules and it had to stop there. You were there to calm my storms, how can I thank you enough for that? But you're not meant to sail through it until the calm shore, which wouldn't last for a long time because I myself is a walking disaster, is in view. I just know that you aren't meant for that. We'll still be under the same sky, together in this dimension apart but we'll still look at the same stars and all these won't matter anymore."
Not a poem but an excerpt from a letter I'll never give.
  Nov 2018 Yani
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
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