I could neither open my hands and hold the drops nor got wet
You fail to explain or understand some concepts.
Those concepts have a definition, a taste and a place for everyone.
Like love.
Throughout the history of humanity, many definitions of love have been made, are being made, and will continue to be made by people from all walks of life.
Where there is life, there have always been beauties, signs, colors, feelings, emotions, dreams, pains, longings and meanings about love and love.
The real state or condition of a person who lives with love, breathes with love, shoulder a life full of love, and consumes a life with love is different from these reasons.
Sometimes he stops drinking, eating, sometimes a whole life is not enough for him.
Sometimes, he is completely cut off from the world, only busy with the one he loves.
Sometimes, his eyes do not see anyone, he gives his integrity only to the one he loves.
Sometimes, his gaze becomes fixed, his thoughts and dreams become the ones he loves altogether.
Falling in love makes a person different.
Falling in love moves people.
Falling in love is not possible for everyone.
Because love is not for everyone.
It doesn't get along with everyone.
The heart where love has fallen is no longer an old heart.
That heart is now in fire, in dark emotions.
The night and the day are now one, your heart falling in love.
Right and left are now mixed, your heart painted with love.
His mind is set aside, love is the heart that walks hand in hand.
This is love, doing what you want, getting what you want, the heart that it is.
For a child, breaking a toy without enthusiasm is what it is to a child.
What a strange thing, this thing that keeps beating inside us, as if the world would turn differently if I held your hands, but it didn't. You passed by like a beautiful rain on a summer afternoon when we were scorching hot, I couldn't open my hands and hold the drops, nor did I get wet, man. I just chilled out a bit, that's all.
Such is love.
He constantly drags the man/woman after him.
It annoys your opponent.
It stuns the soul it puts on.
In fact, love makes even the silent hearts speak.
He brings immovable mountains to his rein.
It makes impassable roads close.
It makes unreachable dreams come true.
Everything got worse, you know? For example, the captain died, they sold the boat, I stopped sailing. Actually I gave up a lot of things, I wish I stopped loving you too.
I wonder if I thought of you the most! I think people are more afraid of dying than being forgotten. Anyway, never mind, these are my problems.
So many things are left unfinished, right? It's like we're slaves when our hands are tied. When something is finished or unfinished, we can't just stand there and have no way of going back. We have to play a magic trick, in order to be able to go back to the street we want, that street has to fall in front of us again.
You were always half but not left behind, I kept carrying you with me. My back hunched, my shoulders ached, but I still did not give up. Because I always believed that one day I would find a way to bring you back in front of me. It didn't happen.. Still, people don't give up hope, they still want it to be completed, whatever is left unfinished...
In a poem you read,
Or another city by the sea
Sitting and thinking of good things
I wish that I come to your mind. You are my half left wound.
We've been hurt so much in the past that we have scars that we hide
I hope you look at your reflection in the mirror with the admiration it deserves in the new year.
I hope you stop hating yourself and fix the mistakes you can't change.
I hope you stop doing something that doesn't make you happy, even if you don't know what will make you happy in the new year.
I hope you stop surrounding yourself with bad friends in the new year
and you start looking for people who will add value to your life and make it better.
I hope you stop being in a relationship that doesn't lead to anything.
In the new year, I hope you stop fulfilling other people's expectations about how you're going to live your life.
I hope you will stop pushing yourself and make others happy and start making yourself happy.
I hope you stop lying to yourself about what you really want in the new year and find the courage to try it.
I hope you stop comparing yourself to others and start comparing yourself to the person you were yesterday.
I hope you stop running from love in the new year and let love find you.
I hope you stop thinking you're in a hurry and learn to appreciate the moment.
I hope you stop following the path someone else has chosen for you in the new year and follow your dreams, no matter how crazy.
I hope you stop being stressed and pressured.
I hope you find what is causing these feelings and stop.
I hope you stop holding on to your ex in the new year.
Because it's over and you need to stop thinking about it coming back.
I hope you stop needing people and learn to love yourself.
I hope you stop looking back and thinking about where you were and start focusing on where you're going.
I hope you stop waking up unhappy in the new year and find the thing to wake you up in the morning.
But above all, stop tolerating less than you deserve.
Stop living someone else's life.
Now I want you to take a moment and look in the mirror.
I really want you to see the person looking at you in the mirror.
Maybe you don't really see who he is.
Maybe that's why you've been hurt so much in the past that you have scars that you hide.
Maybe you have daily tear marks on your face because the pain is too much.
Maybe you are hurting a lot.
Please repeat to yourself:
I am beautiful, I have value, I will survive.
You are probably in limbo right now.
You feel lost after what you felt like you had survived a long struggle.
Whatever the situation or situation, I want you to know what you deserve.
Even if you have to read each one over and over until it finally resonates with you.
This is what you deserve.
So trust that one day you will internalize it and get to the point where everything before has led you to something much better.
It may take time, nothing happens overnight.
But first, keep this in mind. You are beautiful, you have value, and you will get over it.
It's part of being human that allows you to be in tune with your soul, to follow your instincts, and to be confident even when the odds are against you.
Being sensitive allows us to see people as imperfect but still beautiful.
It allows us to see not only the differences but also the similarities.
Never let yourself question your worth.
When a person's soul gets tired, his body falls asleep
Maybe the hard part just wasn't for me.
I have to admit that to myself.
Maybe fawning on easy was hanging around my neck like a stigma.
Who knows, maybe that's why I have neck pain.
There are difficult people, they choose hard.
They are great people.
For example:
Is it easy to topple the mountain of kaf because,
They may say, "Be there, O sublime difficulty, sink to the ground, miserable easy."
Or:
They may say that your anger is pleasant or your grace is pleasant.
It is not enough, they also live.
It is difficult to live.
It is difficult to live hard.
Well, I guess I couldn't choose the hard one.
I draped ease over me like a thick blanket or a dark night.
Maybe that's why I'm out of breath or can't see my way.
And again, by making the literature of the business, I guess I took the easy way out.
Because, if writing does not reflect from living, it sits on your back by being ingots on the pages.
Yes, I also unfairly complain about back pain.
I timidly claim to know about most things.
I also know that knowledge alone is not enough, on the contrary, when no action is taken, a person is likened to a donkey loaded with books.
Yes, but not enough.
When knowing is not being, knowledge is stuck in his throat and constantly demands his right.
The most painful thing is curses.
If a person curses his knowledge, he will most likely be like me.
I feel stuck between reality and utopian dreams.
In a way, floundering in purgatory.
He has suffered from dilemmas.
I describe my identity as stumbled upon.
My mood, on the other hand, is wrapped in chameleoning and spiraling lines that change shape like the individuals in a large square, blurring and fading, sometimes pessimistic, sometimes optimistic, sometimes chaotic and intricate moods.
My emotions are undergoing metamorphosis. Sometimes they act in such a rush that I can't keep up with their pace.
Regardless, I actually feel tired.
I think this would be the clearest sentence that could describe me: Tired.
Maybe he's in love, maybe he's crazy, maybe he's not himself, maybe he's struggling with delusions.
But mostly tired.
When a person's soul is tired, physical sleep does not benefit him.
When the metaphysics loses its rhythm and harmony and becomes an arrhythmic, when the soul gets tired and the heart becomes a companion, physics becomes helpless.
When metaphysics loses its health, physics is also affected.
Because physics is under the yoke of metaphysics.
I say my metaphysics aches,
I'm getting ripped from fiber every time.
Say words that will heal me.
Don't tell me tales of one thousand and one nights.
I say my metaphysics hurts.
You are offering me artificial drugs.
I am in spiritual pain.
I say read a few verses to me, say a few prophetic words, pray sincerely.
Sadra offer remedies that will heal.
For example, give me an indispensable parental prayer.
Enter the heart of a friend of God, melt your self in his glamorous eye.
Stroke the head of an orphan, hold the hand of a poor person, and respect an elder.
Please tell me.
Otherwise, I will evaporate in the confusion of depressions.
Don't ever stop.
To stop is to die.
Come on,
Let's cry a little with you.
The gigantic pendulum inside me is working nonstop
You were a bigoted climate, sir, maybe you were independent and lamented when I loved you, whereas I opened wings to an even greater love, my favourite, of course: a love that rears up close to my jugular vein.
The season is scruffy: I just clipped the stars.
It is a human thing that goes through me and reflects outward.
My heart offers a treat, most of all, the heaviness and pride of living with my chastity, and I bounce like birds on the sill of this life that I can't sew in my stout silence, from one window to another and only peck at the clouds, and I know from afar that I am trapped and love without gratitude. I'm going through people's lives...
What if I was alive?
Whatever is not in the account will come and find me.
I couldn't even find Baghdad for a lifetime, and whoever I asked pointed me to me.
That confluence and bubbling waves inside of my soul, and I, with the stature of a traveling dervish, on top of me with a caftan, a patent leather black belt in my heart and my saddlebag on my back, I am spreading out in the bird market on the counter and I am laying my brood in the term principality.
My dawn beats non-stop and I count, I count from left to right...
I count my thinning hair.
I'm counting the dawn
I'm turning the pages and waiting for relative happiness From God, besides, He knows what I'm feeling, I just go into a trance and comb my hair in the sky.
I have a skill or I don't.
For example, if I have thousands of qualifications…
The doves of dawn bring water from a thousand streams, and the birdsong is still in the window of our house when the sun is just born, and as soon as my sun-faced mother washes her face, she runs to the window and feeds the birds with her hands.
The huge pendulum inside of me is working continuously and I am recording my feelings continuously.
I sew with the sewing machine inside me, and I sew my ripped seams, when I can't get any work done in the world, why all the fuss?
I lean my head on your words, whether they are original or not, a universe hidden in each of which I actually circumambulate, I burn before the dreams and guidance that cannot be spoken, perhaps the dilemma of my life.
If it's a treat, I collect my muse and a comb that accompanies the night, and I migrate away, the child in me, who I can barely get along with, whines and I cover his mouth with my hand:
No sound is forbidden, my dear self.
I finally managed to say that...
Labels rain sometimes and untimely departures and returns.
**There is no way the soul can't go, there is no slope, and I rub myself: alone, I hit the ax on the stone and I don't worry anymore with the stones that happen to me, I just draw the outline of my life and suddenly the feri inside me is mottled and mottled.**
**Aren't there those who don't like those who love mediocrity, and those who say they love superficially and vanish?**
**Sometimes it smells like ginger.**
**Dwarf words load sadness.**
**The pain I sowed when there is no description, sometimes what quality people can't suffer, how many openings I now know, the humanity that I respect, sometimes the tired slopes in me that I want to destroy, the steep slopes and snow falls on my hair at every turn and I'm never cold and I love people without being cold, tens of pages sometimes my muse that I face goes away and it is a thought that takes me, I give it to those who go and do not come.**
**It's a one-way flight, mine is the night, but I can't even comprehend it, and I suddenly wake up with a thought stuck in my brain and every time I start, I lift my palate and then I lift my poems and hospitable words that I have stopped to write and hospitable words revive my loneliness.**
**The universe orchestra playing in the background.**
**I am composing the universe.**
**When I was the words of life, I cry loudly with my words and I am escaping from my inner bars and I am enchanted by the number of people more than I can love with their ignorant captivity and I draw a picture of the emptiness I perch, maybe I live the life that I could not and cannot find the opportunity to live every time I pick up the pen.**
**The route of the heart is obvious.**
**I scribble hundreds of pages but it's not enough anymore, I can't speak to those who scribble me, and I bounce only with my power of faith, I find my way with my messed up existence, accompanied by the loneliness that boils from day to night and in the night, I find my way and improvise when I live, love and write, I'm addicted to dreams and hope and here is my inner voice that I call good luck suddenly come to life: sometimes I host in a poem and sometimes I complete my unfinished stories...**
**What a sorrow, what a loss remains in yesterday.**
**What was said to my face and bingo if it was a lie.**
**Thousands of emotions and work that trigger my soul, I tie my head, and sometimes words stick to my throat, what is not written is actually a part of me, and I present as subtitles what I feel in eye contact with nature, which comes into color from color to color, as a subtitle, I tear out hundreds of sentences that emerge on the rough roads of the day and night and lean them on the paper. And of course, my head is love and hope and sadness...**
I swelled like a peacock to every emotion that came to me
Vibrate the dove inside
In fact, touch your trembling loneliness just once
Get into the texture of the softness you feel then softly
Show that you're not one of the regular lovers
and behold God will grant rebirth
When you are most desolate.
Poetry is a feast, and every verse written is painful, the pouring sand of your body, perhaps the trembling hidden in the hourglass.
On that Sunday morning when you built sand castles, you will fall on the road at sunrise after all, my dear childhood, you will grow up without knowing it, without predicting that you will fall out of people's eyes and they will not know that they will fall out of favor.
When you stay yourself, it's okay, but they will deprive you of your own private world and they will turn the hidden paradise into insanity and you will travel as far as people who will annotate your paradise and all their three-letter rebellion in order not to stay far away.
Who:
Who will say "Love", "Rose"...
Sometimes you will crave and as soon as you hear that thumping sound, your heart will rise and you will break from your body:
While you are waiting for the light to rain, it will snow and your heart will be plundered every time you say help.
As you remember, the world will remain snow with you, and your heart will turn into embers, and you will retaliate and trump people's hands, and you will shovel your pain, sometimes at the steepest angle, sometimes very wide, maybe you will reproach the world that comes out of narrow mentalities and ruminates on the road.
Sometimes, and the yarn goes to the market, while the rope does not come to the fore.
A thin snow will fall, you will be broken and you will break all the idols and taboos, you will revolt, you will stuff a battalion of pain into it, so to speak, your dreams will be laid in a huge coffin.
Remaining yesterday.
Save the day.
What will be left to attribute to tomorrow?
And you will become a stone of patience and you will crack in the middle and everyone will say you are crazy.
When your petite heart takes wings and flies.
When your ascetic soul rises to the top and endures the pain thousands of times, a scar will be left behind, because while you are living improvisation, you will go through long, long ways while you are living and loving.
The blood and scar on his wings.
So many people and secrets you've got.
You will bleed as much as you bleed, but without bleeding but without contraction, but unintentionally and unconditionally.
The rest of his life leading to the carrom?
As long as you keep your mouth tight while you are alive and when your way falls, open the mouth of your saddlebag and let all the remaining particles and endless syllables fall out, especially when you are your only luxury to love, write and obey, of course, you are only fond of your Lord and your trademark called love that grows as you give that hidden wealth the purpose of creation...
If the squeamish silence of the rearing wind, which I tend to an arrogant breeze, is transcendent, then every poem, every couplet and description of life's prancing words is my warning.
Sometimes a delayed journey and the reign of my spoiled self did not end, it was gone, provided by my loving balance.
The only prayer of the pen, who writes letters in a hurry, as long as he can't raise a homing pigeon whose day is left, is to open the face of every pain, as long as it touches every heart, the dream and guarantee of the cosy pen, you have happiness and exaggerate life...
I built my remaining life from abandoned dreams, besides, I was an orphan, I wrote poems and stopped writing, the night whispered, sometimes I chased a brace, and sometimes I lost myself.
He is the servant of the only God to whom I oscillate between being relieved and being lost, and to whom I am not grateful.
The meter wasn't bouncing off the counter in my chest.
The evil that I destroyed with my imagination and the faith I swept, sometimes I drew the lightning of the roaring sky on me and every time before I fell, I was throwing lightning myself in the middle of the road and fighting with the demon and the cruel with my resistance to stay on the road.
As consolation, your pen in your ear whispered by my inner voice.
Every word that was an earring was hastily embezzled on paper and I was the owner of my breath, not a prisoner of my soul, and while I never licked what I spit out, I was only consuming the hope that remained in me and I was blooming again.
If I drank raw milk, I was boiling every emotion that came to me, and sometimes I swelled like a peacock, but I knew that this feeling was not permanent and I was getting back to my old self and showing up with my humanity.
The season was winter.
Frost from the night.
It's the quintessence of mercy and it's freezing cold.
If it was a breeze, I was blowing hope, I was roaring.
If it is a craving, sadness was tears, I was cascading and multiplying.
Since I was the only rifle in my lane.
I was winding the clock from flat-footed images, and when the day passed and night came, I was knitting poems from the pains of the night.
The season was cool.
Whirling whirling dervish.
I was spinning like a propeller, and I was looking for ways without surrendering my soul. I went into the presence of my Lord with that expectation of peace and I knew that salvation was hidden in faith and I was breathing deeply in love and hope.
The season was dead.
The outdated day looks to tomorrow with hope.
The soldier of my faithful heart, every emotion and chest full of my words, a journey that I don't count as much as I don't think, I hide at every stop I reach, the side of the city and life that I can't reach.
For example, Kalantor shadows.
Shadows afraid of their shadow.
They also cast shadows and blunt other benefactors.
They oscillate between taking the initiative and dying.
A sun-drenched lover.
Nocturnal longing.
It is the story of a day that was harassed, every poem I stop to write, and I ignore the gloom in me...
Just like the song of being ignored.
The words I coined and the pen I am perched on are still in my womb, the couplets hidden inside me, the full moon hidden in my face, the lightning flashing in my eyes and sometimes the sky that I imitated being a star and commented on with my first name.
Words must bleed.
My rebellion is flat feet.
I am enjoying the season, dear ladies and gentlemen.
What's wrong with being a child?
Everything changed after you and I'm missing you in my life
Everything changed after you. I'm missing you in my life. My attitude towards life has decreased, don't ever ask about my life energy. You were the only one keeping me alive, my angel. I always called you my angel. You went where you belong. If I had known that you would pass away so soon, I would not have delayed going to the place you want to go so much, I would not have given you a word.
When I lose, I realize something, which increases the pain on my left. When I started to come to his grave to breathe, I realized that I was defeated by this world. My heart would be shattered at the slightest harm to you, I wanted to make room for one more person while placing you in that cold earth with my hands. But you came to my mind. You swore to live no matter what. Even if you migrate, somehow you are with me. If I fail to live one day and take shelter in a thick rope. Would you be mad at me?
For these reasons, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time. While the flea was a barber and the camel was a crier, there were mountains where giants lived, fairies lived, adorned with miracles, and hope was never lost.
In the mountains where wolves rule, dogs lived in opposition. The bears were dividing, the Foxes were engaged in trade. The lowland part of the mountain is the forest and its king is the lion. There are many communities where lions are related. At the top of that community, the lion king was cruel, cruel and powerful. He took every road leading to the mountains and tied it to tribute. Whoever rebels or does not do what he wants, he will put an embargo, he will not sell the eagles, water-spraying elephants and many other weapons. The foxes dealing with trade were their agents and were rich enough to pose an internal threat when necessary.
Can dogs ever rule where wolves rule? However, as the wolves saw this embargo, they found a way to raise their own eagles, hyenas and elephants that the lion fears. They no longer accepted the cruel demands of the lion king.
The lion king was very angry at this. He decided to mobilize the means at his disposal in order to eradicate this disrespect and disgrace. In this, he convinced the dogs in opposition that they could rule this country, and gave them financial support. With that financial support, economic values began to collapse in this country where wolves ruled. Foxes, on the other hand, increased prices in the food industry as much as they could.
The dog, whose belly grew with the bone thrown in front of him, became pampered and pampered. He said to the wolves, here is the country you rule. No matter how strong you are, these things do not work out by shouting, intimidating, reviving the golden pages of your history, and producing your own weapon. The country is falling apart. If I rule, everything will be fine and the country will prosper. A delight for dogs. He made unfulfilled promises and even gave messages of friendship to bears who were constantly hostile and trying to divide the country. Bears are starting to look so cute that it's as if they weren't the ones who killed the wolves for years.
Do wolves ever become captives? His shelter made him strong and he continued to stand up against this collective attack. He started deciphering this game with his wolves who believed him. Like a liar's candle burns until nightfall. He strengthened his lungs to extinguish the liar's candle and blew like a typhoon. He's bent his head! howled He killed the bears one by one with his eagles. He punished the foxes.
One day you will find yourself living what is in your heart
One day will come.
I am reborn from the ashes every day,
One day I will go down like the sun without telling anyone.
Isn't it so!
The heart that beats every day, as soon as the moment comes.
The breath you take every day will not come out of your lungs that day.
However, it is a body that is tired of the forbidden years.
At that moment, I would like to get up and shout in the faces of many of them,
Look, here I went to a place near henna.
Throughout his life, man has two friends and two enemies.
One is the heart, the other is the language.
These can be punishments or rewards for people.
Whatever nourishes and grows in the human heart,
He will surely find himself living them one day.
I spent my childhood in a small town at the foot of the Big Mountain. The biggest feature of our district is that the first private forestry and afforestation mobilization started here. That is why the people of our district are naturally in love with nature and green.
When spring comes, lush forests cover the slopes of the mountains, vineyards cover the plains. The cool breezes smell of snow. Our grandmothers plant branches, saplings and flowers in small gardens. Our newborns grow together with the trees planted. By talking to them and playing games, the first lifeline is given to both nature and people. Nature has embraced the trees planted. Nature knows that everything it carries in its bosom is rich. The first flower that goes to the beloved and the last flower placed in the grave are also part of this wealth.
Maybe that's why the pine cones crushed under our feet in the nature we emerge from are healing us again with the crackles they make, and that's why it offers a thousand and one colors from nature in its paintings.
The steppes of nature, which adds beauty to its beauty day by day, add another sip of happiness to our joy of life, the trees planted at our bedside, perhaps to alleviate our joy while we are sharing in our weddings and holidays, and to alleviate our pain in deaths.
Who knows, while these trees hold on to the ground with their roots and wrap us with their shadows, it would be impossible not to mention those who say “everyone kills them they love”. I'm also thinking; Do people who go out into nature to relax realize that they are disturbing nature?
People should learn from trees
Neither of the birds that live on their vines,
What people lying in their shadows,
Nor do they keep an account of the fruit they give.
I wish people could live like this… Without calculation, without books, without harm.
nature and me
I have always thought: “Where am I in nature, where is nature in me?” saying.
The friend is not far away, the enemy is throughout life.
The only thing that will remain tangible is the milk I suckle.
I don't know what it's called
Call it the payoff of maturity.
Whether the weariness of fatigue but
There's one thing I know
The curtain in my eyes has come down.
It's not like I want to see people anymore,
I see them as they are.
I lie foolish where necessary,
Just so that the person in front of me would think himself smart and be happy.
Sometimes I take small steps away
So that it wouldn't be a surprise that I went.
I can't deal with anyone because from now on,
I live on my own shores, on my own.
I realized too late that;
You don't always get to a place by rowing,
Sometimes it's best to just let it flow.
I don't know if it brings happiness, but?
At least it doesn't hurt my head.
No matter what comes out of our lips, whether we are good people or bad people, the real answer is always hidden in our hearts and in the words that will be spilled at our last breath.
@Poetry45
