In which scene of my mind I think I'm stuck in which hole

I have never imitated everyone as much as I am no one, and here it is snowing flaky years later.

Even though I couldn't stick with an ax all this time, the Creator has given me so many opportunities, and my inner voice and my inner voice, which has beaten all of them and hit now, and the life presented to me was already memorized by poetry, and my first acquaintance was with poetry:

I met his pen and fell in love with poetry suddenly.

But how can a person know that he is actually walking on the shore of poetry and swimming in the vastness of poems when he has an analytical mind?

I just took my blood pressure: it looks like it's okay.

So what is this dizziness?

The phone rings and my brother's voice is not very good.

In the end, he too was blessed with the virus called covit.

My mother, on the other hand, is trying to talk to us one by one while we are torn between the two of us.

Now, in which scene of my mind, in which hole am I stuck, what am I thinking?

The rhythm of life.

For example, my moodiness.

Even if I have a good heart, that heart doesn't say good things about myself, when have I ever been nice to myself?

When did I love myself to the fullest?

I no longer demand to be loved and…

Unfortunately, all I can think of is a pink lie, but there is nothing like love: ah, did you feel loved a little?

Don't you love me?

First of all, my Lord loves me, otherwise I had already changed the world, which I know as a virtue with the torture I have done to myself until today.

I close the curtain, after all, when the lights are on, I never like to be seen outside. While people are already poking their nose into everything and producing a lot of talk.

The world has surrendered to the winter, the virus has already surrendered, and I am fighting at the back, the diary of a life that I isolated myself very much, and my travels of the universe and my imagination when I was a traveler thanks to my emotions.

Truths.

justifications.

dreams.

Maybe it's a spelling mistake, maybe love is something you know, the heart's insatiability, the love drags you along, and your heart is more than a season, a connotation and your words don't end your pain.

It is love, after all, it is the lava that drags you to the bottom of the earth. Love is the continent of your existence in geographies that you cannot cross, a collar you cannot reach, that patchy wound you cannot open.

Love is what you're trying to do.

To the angel of love you've been fawning over.

A word that you say politely and full of refuse, and sometimes an irreversible greeting.

You are a guest.

You have memorized the mise-en-scène.

What I can't sift through, maybe what you can't touch, is briefly the dry leaves that ignite on the outside of the pain, your heart is burning and the lamentation of the breeze...

That moment…

Your flaming and sudden.

A gigantic t/love hidden in your body and embers that you cannot escape...

You can't go miles.

You pull your jacket and you pull it.

You breathe in love and the burning smell of love.

Prophecies are spoken and the self you betrayed.

You pull that huge iceberg out of the poles and you hide in the darkness.

You compromised beyond your temperament.

You were astonished at the full sound of the mihrab.

Love is majestic, and your existence is hidden in the star of the North, beyond the poems you know and love.

It's hidden inside you.

Spilled from the cement.

Now, the innocent cry of love that you can't enjoy your life and high-necked love.

The poet's clothes are torn, and while you are watching the path of your lover, which you cannot see far beyond what you see while washing your face in the fountain of love, you burn and burn in the kerrat ruler of love, how bored and weary your soul is.

Sometimes, love, which is outdated, and the city's loveless sea, can suddenly go out on both sides of the city, and at work, the fire of love can sometimes go out over the steaming steam of the winter sun, if love is the poet's motto, sometimes in distant climates and exiled geographies, the lines and bleeding knees of the poet are suddenly inconsistent, because one cannot live without love...