Maybe it was three or five poems that I snacked on that didn't suppress my hunger

My heart is whacked: what does it seem?

Some people who suffer from my subject, sometimes and the embarrassing embarrassment: love is full of sadness, like a note hidden in the texture and spirit of the heart, and sorrow in the expeditionary hijr.

However, neither my sorrow nor my feelings that I bridle.

If there is a God, there is no sorrow.

There are people in mourning, and here are the fugitive words, lustrous colors on the red blood cells of love, and the subject of the death of my white forehead, the subject of which I imitate, another world's reservoir, the sloped satire is wounded.

As my eyes scan the universe.

Keep your hair full while combing.

The girl of mystery is the light of the eye and the foreword of my story.

I have fairy tales, ladies and gentlemen.

My milestone has changed a thousand times and the only thing that does not change is my loneliness and my longing for a friend.

That window I hung.

A sublime altitude, as if the nobility and guidance hidden on the hill where the sky moves where love competes, if mine is ignorant courage, would I stretch my hand to every heart?

Big laughs.

A divine effect, perhaps anger.

The vanishing horizon.

Blissful bliss.

While the concerto is the season's and the core syllable is the essence of love and words, here is the heart's final confession that I could not approve my pre-wind edict issued by the season in which love goes to extremes...

Making room for tomorrow.

The precursor is vague, even insignificant.

While I was expelled from the hundredth village gate, whose foreword turned the day and night, while knowing and loving the headman of each village and its people wholeheartedly...

Shall we meet, sir and you dear lady?

You know, the one we greet yesterday...

You know, the one we shook hands with just yesterday…

You know, every time I get stuck, I run to you...

I am your heart.

The song of the reinforcing sadness.

For now I'm the best man, my left side hidden in yesterday and my fading face and fading joy.

I had one request, but maybe dozens…

Talking love.

I am charged with blunders and the inner voice is also a notice.

Mercy and intuition hidden in my intuition, my heart and vast dictionary, the festival-laden enthusiasm inside me, the wind and the route of the sky outside of me is a rainbow, if I am the soldier of sorrow, the belt on my waist is very tight.

I could never be tight-lipped with people, I usually bored them and you, although I had a lot to say, since the universe gave me the right of passage, our acquaintance is my heart, your hearts, which I know for the sake of all this time...

My subject was singular.

If my longing is plural…

My dedication and foreword and precondition is friendship and my singing inner voice.

One thing is the urge inside me.

A pain whose blood pressure does not go down.

I was not the hunter of the stories, I am not the hero of the stories at all: I am a storyteller at best. I can't get enough of telling you and your ignoring my love and need for you while you ignore it, maybe a black spot in your eyes, with the peace and confidence of being human at your core...

If I had friction, the damp steps inside me, I climbed, I climbed, I regretted, maybe I stayed, that Purgatory I was still in doubt with the badge of the past, I cracked with the badge of the past.

Maybe it was the three or five poems that I had to snack on while I was crushed and I couldn't end my love that I couldn't hide the astonishment of the cursor and exclamation point, the subset of which escaped from the dictionary in my life with a cutting saw. As the shadows descend, people play in the stands…

I'm in the captain's mansion, the raft called.

I'm swinging.

I'm hiding…

I am acquitted…

Perhaps the highest position I have transferred.

Lie impartiality.

I burn as much as I burn.

I don't care about anyone other than I beg my Lord, or would I bounce with my subject on the slope of longing and would I pull out your demon's teeth with my noble stance?

My words are the wound I rub salt in.

My heart that I lick.

My story as much as I've been looted.

While undeniable.

Even when you can't reflect.

What is the echo of longing, patched words, half-life.

Did I burn?

Wait, I've only just begun…

I wish what I wanted to say was limited to these...

I offer my condolences to the pen that pats me on the back with regret, and I don't actually say why I'm saying it lately...

Besides, I don't write so that someone will pity me and I don't live.

I am a dream, after all.

More than the wand of love...

The scepter and the pen.

Whether you like it or not, while I have loved for a lifetime easily for everyone else...

The subject is closed, of course, until the next article, otherwise how will my sad heart live the summer?