I don't have rings, I don't wear and I don't want necklaces

The poems hanging in my imagination are the birds hidden in the flying clues of my mind and all my troubles are with myself but there are other things that are real and the snow I dreamed of has finally arrived on the hill and who knows how much it will rain until the morning.

Morning prayer is already my favorite time, and evening is my favorite time.

While I'm between a lemon and a martaval called sleep.

And poems.

The highest branch I land on whenever I fall, my Lord and my mother and many people I love, but I never say it to their faces, I don't just keep it hidden in my prayers, I always wish good things for them, actually for everyone.

Does it snow a lot?

God knows that, but have I thought about people who will be cold and have no fire?

Our elders say, "Do snowflakes get very cold if they believe on the ground without even touching each other, but when it snows, it breaks cold?"

I open the curtain and a wonderful view of nature in the garden opposite:

Does snow suit nature and Istanbul that much?

And is poetry so befitting of life?

It's also a rumor that I blinked on the star chart.

I knit myself a stylish beret from the spots on my wings.

And at work, I walk in the morning with stability, I keep watch at the hour when the whole city is sleeping, I am on the poems stop and walking on the inspired minibus that runs on this line, one by one, I bounce around the city one by one, I see in front of me on the sidewalks and I see in front of me with my own flashlight, I make a difference with my blessed life in this crazy consumption age Books and magazines are my only luxury.

The sour taste in my mouth and the whispers in my ear that I was so sleepy that the poet obviously asked for mercy...

Sometimes I say the pain has stopped, as if to say the rain has stopped,

Just like that, or because God wanted it.

I don't have rings, I don't wear them, I don't want necklaces.

There was so much lightning that night, I thought of the end as the letter Z.

As the last letter, I thought of you dude.

I was born, I gave birth.

I saw how a person grows.

To survive

And besides surviving, I Believed poetry was a babble.

When I walked to the right of a grave marked on my heart map and crossed the street, then I threw myself on the bed and I know why my sleep was dead...

Is life and poetry so integrated?

Even though I know it will be a dream, writing the story and poetry of love is more than what I demanded for me in the pain of infinity.

It turns out that life is poetry itself.

It turns out that the air in which I ate poetry, drank poetry and breathed for a lifetime was poetry itself. So let me have a short poem.

Dream-driven seasonal love's fountain of transient love

Hidden in your demise: the tare of your loneliness

Sometimes the gigantic staff of the altar

And here I locked my heart, you have a spiteful demon, don't let the curse go out

Love was the gift of the universe, love was the maintenance of your heart

Love was the needle of your poems.

My heart is familiar with love, my heart is full of humility

Chest full of sadness, love-filled city

The only thing left is the command to "love" is my God's command.

What is it like to get lost while typing?