In time, I find the strength in myself to dare to forget
There were cat scratches. On my arms, neck and face. On the one hand, it was a loving, and on the other hand, pitiful sight. Could a love be this destructive? Apparently animals liked it that way.
When I looked in the mirror, I couldn't recognize myself anymore. Neither the face reflected in the mirror, nor the one behind it. Was I this weary spirit that gave up the struggle? Was he the man who made me question love all my life?
I no longer entered people's private spaces just because I wanted their well-being. If someone refuses to do something for themselves, I didn't expect them to do it for me. Now I was leaving those who wanted to be with me to their own will, and those who didn't want to be with me to their own will. I was no longer on a shoulder to cry over their sadness when their temporary enthusiasm and joy were over. It was a defensive instinct that had worked flawlessly so far. But I couldn't manage to leave them. Although they leave a pitiful feeling in my soul like cat scratches.
It was half past four in the night. He had come and snuggled next to me. I was startled as his icy feet touched my leg. And then that damn smell. I have a feeling like nausea. It wasn't nausea, but there was a feeling of vomiting. “How did the snow fill it?” he said. I opened my eyes and left the curtain ajar before going to bed next to my window. I knew it would be full, so when I opened my eyes between sleep, I wanted to see this beautiful view. It was well wrapped. But the feeling and the smell, which had passed for a moment, penetrated me again. I got out of bed and went to the kitchen to drink water. He came up to me and said "what's wrong". "I have a bad stomach" I said. Then I went back to bed and he came back to me. I said "to the one who changed" without turning my face towards him. He got up and changed. She went and washed her face and I think she sprayed her perfume. He came again. But nothing came to my nose other than that bad smell. It didn't even smell of perfume. I was sensitive to smells, normally, for example, I would detest the smell of disinfectant. I threw myself out of the bus with nausea because the woman sitting next to me on the bus smelled of disinfectant. I don't know if it means disinfectant + hospital + blood, that's why I hated hospitals. It might have something to do with getting me bleeding. But this other scent was something indescribable. I jumped out of bed again and headed for the bathroom. I wasn't going to vomit, I wanted to wash my face. Then I went to the living room and opened the window as if all I needed was oxygen. And the peace of the wife made me forget everything for five seconds. He came back and said "what's wrong". "It's the same smell again," I said. “What smell?” he said. I replied as if I didn't know. "Coming with you once in a while," I said. " how come?" she said. "I washed my face." I stopped and thought about whether or not to say "I wonder if you should take a shower?" said. He entered the shower. Then I threw all the clothes he took off into the machine. I literally washed the whole house with the smell of the room. Then I went to bed. And it came. Hugged. I hugged. I wanted to say a lot. I was angry. I was upset about it. Frankly, I couldn't bear it. What was there to drink? What was making him unhappy or what was his habit, what was more important than his life. Although I had spoken many times before, I had no strength to repeat these words, which were met with denial and objection and drove him away from me.
Not only to himself, but also to others with the evil he has done to himself. I did not deserve this punishment. In our last discussion, which started with the same smell, we compared yourself to the cat and said, "You love the cat even though it scratches you, you don't love me!" he said. And he kicked the poor cat out. We searched and scanned it in the middle of the night and found it under the stairs. But it was an animal. Instinctively she loved it like that. So why was he creating such deep wounds in my soul even though he was human? And why couldn't I just stick with him and get anywhere from this damn house...
I guess some things just didn't have an answer. Habits were not easy to break. The love that colored people had become a prisoner of habit, even though they did nothing but harm. He wanted a familiar face. Reminding him of his past. To break with the past meant to forget. Forgetting was unconsciousness. There was no conscious side to living like this. People don't change, but my attitude towards them was changing day by day. I was changing. If I find that strength in myself that I can afford to forget over time, maybe I could manage to go away from this animal love...
Even if I'm alone, I listen to the messengers of the light
Hello friends. I am moving towards the end of an ordinary day that is similar to each other again. I cover my face with both hands as the night makes itself felt. I make my way into my own twilight, into the depths of my soul, withdrawing into my own little world.
The gaudy, painful and cold death life on the outside gives me chills. The massacres, the wars, the children playing under the bombs, the love in it; I even unwittingly take the unions where the name of love is not mentioned into my own little world and blend them with the dream of a happy world. And I commit the greatest crime and sin in this world; I think and question.
My faded memories are in the hands of my past.
My hopes have become a door and a wall, I'm in ruins.
So let me wander into the arms of silence
Let me sway against fate in the gardens of love
I lit my candles again tonight
I commemorate my most stormy loves ever.
Is our life just a struggle to survive, to survive and to breathe? Or; Is it to reach peace by leaving a trace on the dimension we live in and completing our own spirituality? When will we realize that children have no religion, language or nationality and make them happy just because they are children.
We will understand that no matter what religion you belong to, just praying will not make this world a better place, that it is possible to fight for the people of the world without separating them, and to make the world even more beautiful by giving the right to life to nature, animals and the woman who is the mother of human sons. When will we remember love? When will we fall in love with the soul of man again, leaving aside titles, financial interests, ostentation. When will we step into the happiness of our loved one before ourselves and be happy with his happiness. It is in our hands, friend, that this world is beautiful.
Or we will leave the world to its own darkness, saying fate. Fate is such a phenomenon, friend: Unless we want something, it wraps around our lives like a ivy. It makes our hands unable to move our arms. You are a pawn in this life now. Your wishes die, your dreams have already left you.
Waiting was loving. I don't know why I didn't come.
Or what was it like to love too much to go?
I used to make love with the shadows, but before every reunion
All their enthusiasm is enough to consume the time to meet when they come.
I wrote anonymous compositions for platonic loves
I wrote that snow-loving men did not like me.
Unless you question, unless you start a journey to your own depths, unless you take your patience with you and step into the truth, LOVE, you are a slave to what is presented to you, that is, to your destiny in this life. Listen to the messengers of the light within you, collect the gleams in your own light, not what fate has given you. Do not be afraid, fight with what is presented to you, be the master of your destiny, not the slave, then you will reach true happiness.
Come on, stand up, criticize yourself first. Criticism is the polish of a person, friend. If you don't accept criticism, even if you see yourself as light, what you project is only darkness. If you follow the wheel of the day in the dark; your soul evaporates, your body renounces its soul.
You wander around in this order, thinking that you live only with an empty body, without love, without love, without injustice, with false friendships, fake ties, and a meaningless and fake smile on your face. Keep your rebellious spirit up in this world. Even if you are alone, listen to the messengers of the light.
Embrace your values that connect your soul to your body and illuminate your life path. Even if the whole world is plunged into darkness and you are the light of a candle, keep burning.
The war inside me doesn't stop, but I'm so sure that the roses are blooming
I button up my dreams, like a sneaky run.
Conditions I offer.
I water the presentation with poems of the soul.
Even if it is painful, as long as I hide in the sky, I will always be separated from the hidden group on earth.
Is it a manifesto or the humble ring that I added from the resurrected words.
I'm drained.
My soul is home to the polar ice, and I run away, I just run away and make up for it, the pressure of the words is in my heart the embroidery of the books and the embroidery of the season, the ribbon of the season hastily tied...
I like being independent, both from my body and from people far away.
On the other hand, I like to be addicted:
Addicted to love.
Here are many of my published emotions clustered and I tightly shut my cumulative emotions...
What are three or five years of spilling compared to my growing mourning?
A piece of shrapnel got stuck in the pen, and this time I stand on my feet, what is three or five poems that I snack on as my heart breaks?
My existence, which is deemed to be incomplete, whereas I have disciplined my mind and body down to the comma, I do not feel cold, I warm up in the winter cold with the flutter of my heart.
I wasn't hungry, after all, since I was ten years old, I had been able to skip meals and days, while I had graduated from university with a degree in the eyes of and in the eyes of the years that passed without sleep.
It's not enough though.
My bad luck?
Dead butterflies in my wavy hair?
Words that the universe has bestowed on me, perhaps, that I scorched.
Sadness is never my interlocutor, I can't say, and I'm filing your nails: that's not enough either.
I open the tip of the pen and it feels incredibly ashamed, then I wear a long dress on it, of course, as a result of all the things I've been taken on, whatever or anyone I don't approve of comes and finds me.
I know the volcano and grove in my heart, but the self-confidence of living under the auspices of the supreme being who protects and watches over the universe, that I circumambulate in the blind spot of emotions.
There is something out of date, on the other hand, I try to explain it with gestures like a mime artist, and I scream as loud as I can, even though I can neither see nor be heard, of course, force to the bottom, of course, force to pen, it's like magic sadness is scrambling in my heart and here I am sneaking out of the back door of the inn. I thought you were an innkeeper, while everything that remained of my soul, which I had encoded in my vigilance, was a baby wolf, while I was following you like a sequential number.
The wolf that escaped from the apple I had bitten.
Whatever I have to report hidden in my tag is stacked inside me and I extend my hand to the moonlight and it disappears from the eyes.
This time, I winked at the belief that I am a star, the firemen scream, almost as if I was treated as a criminal in the raid and penalized me, the police and I hand out a painful word to the other criminal standing in front of me: while he, like me, was reported and detained and not knowing what our crime was, they stuff me and my words into the patrol car. and siren sounds accompany us as we are taken to the unknown.
What remains of the known.
An image, like mesir paste, grins from afar, of course, the only truth of the day I was locked up with my love of writing…
They are touching my back.
I'm sure you read the banner on my back.
Then someone whispers in my ear and here I am being released while I am sentenced for a crime I did not commit and I ask what my crime is:
The first step towards becoming great is to be honest.
I ask:
Do you have a doubt?
The carnage inside me does not stop, but I am so sure that I am standing still...
There is no doubt that you are honest.
Who is it that whispers in my ear?
Someone is pulling me by the collar, but I don't have such endless desires, moreover, there is a greater God.
It is so obvious that I keep the tally of my whole life, which I only offer my inner voice, and my sad heart is whipped, sometimes I fall to the ground with a rhythm disorder, and my only problem is with myself, while the poet gives advice while I am about to write my edict…
I have a pond made of dripping water while the roof inside me flows
I write poetry to deal with all this confusion. Poetry is a good companion for a nomadic person like me and a nomad. Even if you go to the bottom of the seven floors of the earth or go up to the seven floors of the sky, it will come with you. Poetry is an impossible thing, impossible, helpless. I feel this, I always find my own despair in him.
Sometimes I take refuge in a poem, sometimes in a story.
What have I brought myself close to what is reasonable?
Maybe I'm stuck in order to hear a positive sentence, maybe my loved ones and bingo.
My words are bloody these days.
My heart is shattered.
My existence is between existence and non-existence, and I am a traveling cloud that has claimed the turmoil in the universe, but that a servant of God does not own my loving existence.
A touch is poetry.
If it is a love, it is the non-stop blood of the pen.
Whereas, my skin is white and nobody should say: I am a bloodless disciple because I am a bloody creature. The war in this world and the hearts that I have been put into with my warrior spirit.
The sadness that I roast like rice.
Tears flowing from my eyes like popcorn kernels.
I became a hundred eyes with my grief, finally my heart turned to a sofa bed, and here I am in the lead in the lane of sadness by a wide margin.
I can neither go back to yesterday nor take a step forward...
A festive vigilance is the wound in me.
Wings of the peninsula inside me, I still haven't been able to join the main continent, and I have written the lyrics of my life in silence, in the center of love, where I was stuck like a lame lead.
If I do not praise, I cannot live a day.
Nobody should say that you did well, you did it.
Like that sour taste hidden in a pitcher of lemonade, I make my heart crumple and love my humanity as I live.
My bad luck and thank God that I can call my Lord.
What's hidden in the main menu:
Poetry while the tween is hot.
And my heart, which I have basketed for useless images and presented to the table on a gold tray.
My essays that I snack on as a snack and my letters with burnt ends that I write incessantly.
I am the owner of this loving heart and a pond that I built from the dripping water while the roof inside me was flowing, perhaps the regulars of the heart that I know as a guest:
Confidential like love.
Infiltrating as sadness.
The breeze inside me, while the saz word is ending.
I slept the day and came.
My words making love with a kind heart.
The one that I loved and wrote with the flux of my forehead and dragged with the body of yesterday.
And my presence in the moment…
After all, I am the crew of the universe, where I kept my heartbeat when the winter wind was a diary with a potion, where the winter wind squeezed into a holey bag inside of me, and my day does not need to be tomorrow.
It is possible for me to delete the words that have been swept away and speak a slippery language, and that deep corridor inside me, and here are the dreams and shadows hidden in my eye sockets, if I am the sluggish crew, your feelings usually pass in the wheelhouse. If my vest is my pen, I breathe.
I don't know if women still play in diapers. I've seen everything, I'm not a good poet to say with peace of mind. I can only say that we saw something. Lately, I've been trying to act like a lady as much as I can.
Your life while it was like this before.
My first youth, when people say I am little lady, and my desolation of the heart, which I embrace with love, as I cannot tolerate those who know the hidden mercy in my intuition as oppression.
The mood of the day.
The migration of love.
Poems, on the other hand, are little suns hidden in my blood.
While it is the herald of my being born and born and reborn in me, when my pen can reach the earth, my voice reaches the Throne.
Silence is what I know.
That I ran away from the shadows of enmity.
Love, on the other hand, is the vaccine of my existence, perhaps the corpse of yesterday, with my pen in my hand while walking ahead one by one, like the excitement dripping from the words I knitted with the sweat of the pen, while I was the spark of life in the people's assembly, where I was still alive with hope and unshakable will, even I couldn't believe in myself.
I was no longer a child, I was officially a young girl
Familiar cement, dear stranger.
He says that the mourning is dead, after all, the storks who lactate, haven't they always been fond of worms? Of course, I had to grow up first to understand what this means.
I just overestimated people.
One day, I learned that I would be a brother and I couldn't decide on which side of my bed I would sleep on. After that day, I was fussy and a bit of a jerk: well, was it easy, I was going to take my live toy that I had ordered to God in my arms months later, I never questioned where my mother was carrying the baby after all. I was a child and it was almost impossible to guess how that tiny creature did not drown in my mother's growing belly...
The child's mind is at work and I started counting the days in a hurry, but it was not enough.
Then I realized that our family would grow, moreover, I already had an old friend whom I loved very much: my grandmother and her mind started to fade over time, and sometimes she didn't even recognize me. On the other hand, I was constantly tickling her, believing that she was playing games, and I was covering her in a hurry so that she wouldn't get cold because I knew that the only thing that made her feel cold was the air.
I fell once t/away.
There was someone who got closer to me every day.
I fell in love once because I was in love with my grandmother and it seemed that I was going to fall in love again with that tiny creature that would join our family. I was going to hurt him a lot, after all, I was not on top of my mischief.
Time has moved.
The phases bounced one by one from heart to heart.
Then my dream came true and as soon as I took my beautiful new live toy in my arms, how I forgot how lonely I was, besides, I betrayed my first love and soon my grandmother passed away like migratory birds.
I was a vaveyla left in the den.
I was also a treacherous she-wolf, and when the moon came out I would howl as soon as my brother started to cry because her sobs pierced my heart and now I knew which side of my bed she was going to sleep on because her tiny and warm body covered almost the entire bed, my Little Prince.
The bounce of the years.
The rumination of life.
That my dreams come true.
As the day disappeared, I was looking at my body in astonishment with a growing longing, because I was no longer a child but officially a young girl, moreover, the title of sisterhood suited me very well.
I still couldn't understand why the storks were babbling. After all, my living toy, which was bestowed in a basket that fell from the sky, was growing with me.
I've always been a naive kid.
I still can't deny that I'm naive.
My pure existence always makes an innocent connotation to me.
The world I'm close to and the people I love may be the factor in my staying true to my purity, after all, the slightest malicious intent is not hidden inside me, so I've always been so generous.
I always shared my school pocket money with my classmate, and I never said, "Why am I giving my money to her?" until one day I yelled at my father, and that's the first time in my life I saw her being so serious and dominant when my father got angry and advised me to be thrifty. .
Well, I wasn't the only one who wasn't frugal.
This is how I saw it in my family:
To share.
To love a lot.
Sharing your bite and being happy.
My pale branches from a creeping flower in a chain of pain
I wish my wounds were the product of dreams: my heart was the checkstone of the life I was halfway through.
If it's the season, I'm a bird of torment, otherwise I'm longing for a longing that creeps on the edge of love:
If it's a love that's raging before destiny, the loneliness in your hazel eyes that I breathe in is a futile smile, maybe I'm inspired by my pain.
QR code is your life.
Square root of love.
It is unknown when the black and fat young man is hidden in his love-loving basket.
Abandoned cells.
Oaths without volume.
If there is a self that spreads wings to love, otherwise, a rhythm that is slaughtered in the river of love that takes water in my boat is in the tide of the breeze I stand on end.
Blue is my breaking dawn.
I'm hiding in the magic of a hallucinatory life on my neck with the breath of the painful pen on my neck.
The asset is reserved.
Absence is cursed.
My humble self hidden in the hidden prose of she's lyrics and the kick I gave to my accompanying dead soul when her breath goes out...
A minefield of love.
It has a meaning or it doesn't exist, let's be longing for whoever it is.
The universe orchestra of the poem is playing in me without interruption.
Losing is love.
Humanity and hope are exhausted…
The balance is the day, the night-eyed lover's indifference, whereas I did not take permission while I loved him.
The speed of tired birds.
How dull is your season of passing sadness.
A woman going into labor in pain.
What a need!
Nor a heart full of sorrow.
While I was clenched in my bubbling chest, the person stopped.
He doesn't get it in the rhyme of transcendent words.
It must be the composition of the universe, you know, the fluttering scale-laden notes of silence.
If a relative happiness is mine, with colorful sentences blooming.
They are horny, greedy selves.
Few of your life is left in the last line of every poem that runs to happiness.
Poetry is a good companion for a nomadic person like me. Even if you go to the bottom of the seven floors of the earth or go up to the seven floors of the sky, it will come with you. Poetry is an impossible thing, impossible, helpless. I feel this, I always find my own despair in him.
Think about it, darling, think about it.
In which dream shower am I caught in this rough love?
Fairy tales or the ones I was written about, fairy tales or a harbinger of what I could not write?
My heart was enchanted, with the fallout called sadness as it brewed.
If I were a shooting star in the pale skin of the sky on the pale skin of which I refer to the shadows of the human beings hidden in the haunted dreams, do you mind if I am a miserable servant in the eyes of God, who extends a huge magnifying glass to my nearsighted loneliness, which I compiled from the tales of a thousand and one nights, sir?
Every compliment.
Perhaps the most gigantic competent when in solitude.
Continuity is the pale branch left behind from a creeping flower in a series of pains, I both enlarge and share my loneliness like every poem in which the old and mournful season is recited.
I sow sadness, reap poetry.
I drank the brew of next spring that I know.
I sewed every word left over from such an existence to my heart.
I am the sun without the joy of a morning read by a demon, a forgotten refrain hidden in my soul in love with the night, maybe more than a street lamp flashing in secluded places or the beacon of my heart?
Every time I smell the longing.
When I root words.
The place of loneliness I fell in love with before a prose I was in pain is obviously a utopia, every blood dripping from my existence, my heart door that I open, and even the last crumb of my dead soul and my breath that I keep hidden in the sadness crew that I steal is enough.
Many sorrows that I resent in the turmoil called the obvious world, which I can't get enough of, is a poem that sometimes remains from my secretive heart, and here is a poem that I open and fade like a creeping desert flower in the countryside of love that I can't break away from...
That I breathe in like a sob in the throat of the planet.
That I resent like futile smiles hidden in the pure existence of loves.
While the grace and supplication of the season does not end.
While the holy temple inside me was looted.
At the bottom of the sky, I became a witness in the lane of loneliness
Writing is not what I am bound to without hesitation.
I don't think of you at all when I write.
Likewise, I am not your dependent.
What I wrote.
My dreams command me to walk on the hot sands of infatuated love: my soul hidden in mourning and my insatiable love for love, knowing that I can do more than pass it off with impatient continents, I never feel sorry for locking myself in a ward for life.
It is also the stage of loving tactlessly and I am obliged and convicted and imprisoned.
Can't you see the bump on my chest?
Oh, my enthusiasm?
I am a freak drop in the stalactites of love, a familiar label for the roaring sound of love.
Mandatory destination?
My Lord, since you are the one who welcomes me, since you are the one who knows me best.
Dead climate in my circle ah, my cause.
My melancholic heart and loving images…
A description is life feelings fore…
What is reasonable is to sleep, perhaps to hit the road, whereas I am the charlatan joy of love and feed my patched heart with pain: my words are more than a spark.
I'm addicted to color.
The cut of love.
The three states of water and the five states of the noun, on the other hand, I am already enjoying the luxury of being a hidden subject...
The silence in my dictionary and I, like a caveman, sometimes magma, sometimes burns, sometimes cuts the hanger, and here I am, my soul is free with words, I don't feel my body and I sent the headache that has not come down for weeks to the bottom of hell.
It's okay if I love you: I know and I'm madly in love with you:
It is not an adjective, nor is it a refrain and I am the open soul of the dark sky and naked, whereas my body is covered, my disorientated loneliness is at its peak.
I'm paying fees.
Free from my body.
When I sold my soul for words.
I fell away from the demon's frequency because once I fell into the trap of your words and how my loneliness is so legendary and that's how my reputation went.
My roaring lion.
I'm a crazy gazelle.
I am hypocritical people and I rebel while paying the atonement for separation, where humanity has seen the bottom.
In godless places.
Based on my servitude, I am intoxicated with love.
At the bottom of the sky, in the lane of loneliness, and I became king, in the wind of love and words.
The stopper of the sky is missing.
If my words are love and loneliness, while reading and beyond reading, the magic of writing and its contribution to me…
And that he stole from me.
I am a privileged servant of God, how many thousand times have I built neither sarcophagi nor fountains, nor temples from my wreckage.
If my shroud is in good hands, I swear.
I was struck, I was struck, especially since I was a child, I was struck by the oath I made when I was in love hundreds of times.
I folded.
I'm out on the floor.
I piled poems from my floor scar to my temple.
The hungry cat of the full house.
I am a Cinderella who lived for eleven years without sleep and without hunger.
My prince.
Even more so, I chose solitude and freedom to my temple on his white horse and teleported away from all my fellows by a wide margin.
In your grace of love.
I fought on the front line in the Battle of the Serbian Sea…
I objected when someone was giving a command.
In order for someone to love me, I did not give credit to people, nor did I cringe, and I gave their due, and with the power of faith of my knowledge, I made an annotation to love.
I am the black of love.
I'm bloody from the hell that reads.
My bleeding cells, my bleeding memory and the jewels inside of me, the tone in my heart, the scar on my chest, not on the faulty stairs where love goes up, not at all in a world under the stairs...
I live and love you and you too, my dear reader, neither do you hate nor complain about my gloom.
I opened my heart and shared a thousand things in their innocent world
It's not an indication that I'm digesting, nor that I'm thinking of anything.
Besides, I am not dealing with the relations that are lived in the middle of nowhere:
My heart is strong.
No echo of my voice.
Thousands of memories and dreams that I put in my chest.
I'm addicted to pain and love, and I keep things I don't know in the lower memory.
What is the full voice of the universe, that is why the skinny child inside me is screaming, so I don't take anything on me, I only deal with the wind that blows into me.
I have a branch that I cannot stay apart.
And the life I want to break away from.
Do I care about relationships when I'm in a match with my color and the innocent pitch of the night when I'm married with love?
I clearly live and live love with my loneliness and not plural words, my ringing ears emphasize where I belong and to whom I belong.
I spent my life in the dream school, and my childhood too.
How could I ignore the endless noise and restlessness of the house?
At the end of the shift, my father was approaching the house with fast steps.
I, on the other hand, have done all my duties after school...
It was my room and my one-room cell, and I used to lock the door from inside and I would turn on the music and dream…
There is no limit to the letters I write.
The situation of the letters that I did not write is even worse: they just stand there and, in the past, they are persistently knocking on the door of my heart.
On top of that, what I've been through right now and during the day.
Then the night unveils its veil and I escape into the night.
In fact, for a lifetime believing that I was running away from myself...
Nowadays, especially in the last ten years, I take refuge in myself and embrace myself.
My love and my incompetent soul is that I can't get along with myself in the first place.
I can't keep my word to people.
Maybe I've had my say for a very short time: that too; The relationship I established with my students and the years I was loved more than I have ever been in my life, I embraced my students…
My red hair, which extends to my waist, is that especially the female students touch my hair and hug me with love.
I opened my heart and shared thousands of things in their innocent world, and each one of them was so poor and hungry for love...
I live in the center of the city and go to school in a very remote and remote part of the city.
I hit the road with my latest model stylish underwear and high heels.
I walked hundreds of meters of muddy road and reached my paradise and my school…
My esteemed principal with the surname Wind and the only one who calmed me down and introduced me to the classes.
That high tempo where I entered almost all the classes of the school and worked as the only English teacher in the school, and the love and satisfaction I felt at the end of the lesson, and I became more blessed and happy than I have ever been in my life.
Do you know what a child's pure look is capable of?
Moreover, that period of time when I worked without a salary.
It's fair to say that I work for a ridiculous amount of money and spend money on it.
My dear students who come to school with nylon slippers on their feet, and what they taught me, I am more happy and grateful than I have ever been in my life.
We sing songs.
We hold hands and dance.
And since I am not a permanent teacher, when the permanent teacher was appointed to my school, I took his class and almost the whole school sent me to the train station.
And the gifts my students bought me with the little pocket money they had:
A hairpin.
A broken trinket and more.
The poems they wrote on tiny pieces of paper and the ones that broke from their hearts.
My genius and innocent children who even play theater in the classroom.
And here is the main beaming into my day.
The clown people of the jester world.
Consumption and cruelty are at an extreme and love is trampled underfoot.
Love.
There weren't many traces of my life, and I had reached the top
Why are pages written?
The world is written because it is painful, and it is written because emotions are overflowing.
It is a very difficult process to get rid of one's own misery.
But once a person gets rid of this misery, then he can take life under his own dominion.
Here is an article written to explain such a sovereignty to one or two more people.
I learned to dominate my world through literature.
I write to come to terms with life and death.
How important is the loss of a nightmare in human life, especially if a person's path crosses with taking his own life.
The last person I tried to reach from the edge of a life where words refusing me, and the ruminant pains in the alphabet of my mind.
Moisture inside.
While I was notorious and walked.
And the call of death that smelled like rotten eggs was such an alluring and steady call.
Snow falling inside me.
The darkness that seeps into my heart is incalculable and the pus leaking from the people around me.
Clinging with a nightmare and my locked heart and body unable to carry this burden, however, beyond being a lightweight mortal, how light as a bird I was before.
A dark whistling and insane island ground from the night breaks up the sky while I live on my fingertips and is the only trace of my life when I was walking and just breathing.
And I was the pioneer of a secret, I was the ward where I was hiding and I was trapped behind iron bars, although it was like heaven in my eyes before.
What was I in someone's eyes?
There is no slide.
The genie of the lamp is missing.
I live with regret.
I was silently banned.
When the light in my face sometimes turns red like a pomegranate and cracks.
And the existence of the pen is just a matter of keeping an account.
A power over me.
Or the fact that the power passed to me, in fact, I passed out, in fact, I lost myself and blew my soul…
A night of jokes.
Huge wind.
Influential people.
The area of my life is limited to an area of only ninety square meters and I am missed with the loneliness and darkness that I am a regular in.
What was I knitting out of my pain?
Kilometers of rugs.
Countless covers.
A shawl.
A blanket and another.
And here is my meeting with the pen.
There weren't many traces of my life, you know, there was no boiling pot in the house, so much that I reached the top in my test with hunger without slowing down.
A discourse that crossed my path:
Never being calm is my destiny, I guess.
My soul and featherweight body, which has been disciplined since my childhood and in harsh conditions.
Heavy exercises.
Long walks.
I gained resistance to hunger.
My sleepless years
Then my lost relatives and my father.
While my only luxury is to dream, I make my dreams come true for better or worse, and then I withdraw from everything and close inside.
My soul and emotions scattered like garbage, moreover, I am inhibited.
It is not accepted that I live without a sound so that the needle of life intersects with silence.
It is the smallest prime number that I have not yet reached the level of nothingness because I have assumed the task of prime number.
My trembling fingers, which I start suddenly and count down, reach minus and deal with minus infinity, and here is my soul that exploded, and it is never possible for me to forget that night for a lifetime, and my shaky fingers make the act of writing real within days.
While you don't know.
I discovered that the only thing I know is that I know nothing:
How strange, how one can have the whole world, let alone discover.
The frequency is cut off.
My circuits threw.
I was unaware that it would take years to return to my factory settings.
Life is not a thing that a person seeks for life, but a phenomenon in which he seeks himself.
The fertility of words.
The alphabet and charm of loneliness.
I trusted and loved everyone but myself
What emotion is it that I am equivalent to?
Or is it the caramel color and taste of love that I am a regular?
The veiled face of love, on the other hand, I shook myself on the b/limp of love and sang lullabies to myself and put myself to sleep.
Let no one think that I have forgotten, and I am more happy and grateful than ever before. Hope and longing are the other names of trying to adapt to the new year's periods.
My past life on a treadmill turns out to be or.
My passion for sports, which I have not compromised for years, and my stationary exercise bike.
We are at the stage of reconciliation with my miserable body, which I have condemned to starvation for a lifetime, but there is a precedent, even the stages of my hidden happiness and gratitude at the moment.
I don't care about any feeling or taste that I've overcome, and I don't care.
There is no servant of God that I imitate, envy or admire, but there are those who question the eyebrow above my eye, and here I seek refuge in You from their evil, arrogance and enmity, my Lord, and I am shoveling my soul and every day I am turning its flowers into buds again, I guess it is true:
He lives by the name of man.
There are even those who emulate my name or those who belittle my name, moreover, when I am the only Rose in my family, my smile or sadness, in short, my naturalness stands out, but I am on your way, since you said to my Lord, "Be" and "read" and you are still inside of me. My beautiful Lord, I live and write inside of me, who brings me peace with the unity of my outside and never disturbs it.
I knit cross-stitch every night at the bedside of my poems.
Then I feel smothered and I appear before you as if I am ecstatic, and I lay out my heart, based on the peace and gratitude I felt for ascending to his level…
People trigger my feelings and it's not enough...
I seek refuge in you from their evil, and seeing the dirt in them makes me ashamed of my humanity, and instead of them, I ask forgiveness from you and the ups and downs in my existence, which made me love it.
Is it the property of the world?
Or whether I curse the career ladder I climbed and turn to myself, and of course, with my face turned to you, I protect my self-respect and the endless peace of loving for your sake, I still know and understand that; Being loved is not good for people, so much so that I can love them out of the blue, but when I come across people who don't like them, question marks come to my mind.
But I stopped asking questions after that day.
A lifetime while believing the answers given.
Moreover, when I trusted and loved everyone but myself.
In my struggle with myself, I couldn't make any progress and here is the miracle that happened suddenly:
From living swept away and by the betrayal of my friends and digging all my thorns and the sack into myself.
Innumerable details where Divine Justice became official and while I had officially hit the bottom and postponed my life and happiness.
I have no desire other than to be a servant worthy of you, my beautiful Lord, it is a fact that I want a lot, but as long as I do not spoil my heart and put my trust in it, everything will be alright somehow, and people will come to a level because of course, because of you, because it is almost time for them to defeat the good will in me, all of a sudden, the world I'm re-creating and starting from scratch. The fact that I can almost certainly write to live has such an incredible share, especially when you say "be"...
I'm sad at last.
It is a beautiful occasion for you to show me that I am different from everyone else in life in such a cruel world where I can even love my sadness, and in those cold and dark winter nights when the sun rises, my cold ends and the mild breeze of my heart spreads throughout my body and my soul finds peace.
But it is so.
There was no one I imitated for a lifetime because I chose to be nothing, maybe it was people who made me believe that.
When did I accept myself?
When was I accepted, my Lord?
I was happy and free as I lived and wrote
I have succumbed to my intuitions, my dear friend, and from now on, I present my wishes for the old car model inside me, only to the Creator.
I took my size measurement and I got so tall.
Then life got shorter and I reserved a slice for myself from those who live in misery, and I walked through the crowds and the noise with the language of silence.
There is no world in which man can live apart from his own world.
What people say to others is what they want to hear.
The biggest reaction I gave was the crown of my head.
Love was the dance of your life.
The response to my feelings consisted of pain...
I loved it to the fullest and with enthusiasm.
I have always loved, and indiscriminately, I have neither met nor loved haters, nor observed loves, but I thanked the Supreme Creator that there was no companion to the love inside me, and I loved the supreme Creator more.
The universe was always silent and I thought: only my Lord was silent and that day I cried out because I had climbed the first step of guidance and I realized that it is the most sacred love Divine Love is the love of the homeland and a mother's love for her child.
My cells sometimes suffocated.
It was my cell that I was trapped in that suffocated me!
How wrong was I, my dear friend, because what was returned to me in return for my love was either hate or ridicule that caused me to suffocate and what was I doing?
I was living naively, living innocently and running away from myself, then suddenly I faced myself and abandoned myself again and again, after all, I had been abandoned thousands of times and squared by my loved ones, therefore, because of those who hated me, I considered myself unloved and disreputable.
I don't want to grow old with anyone.
Even with myself.
I am longing now.
But I still continue to miss it.
Such a big mistake that I have made, or rather, the beauty that I have done and always lived in the past, while yesterday's pain and curse accompany the day and the continuation of the tale continues as a link in the same chain...
The bar for pain was high, too, and here is the climate inside me that always raises the bar.
I'm not sorry.
I'm not private.
How uncertain.
I was an over-the-top person, apart from living humanely and loving humanely, my biggest expectation is that I am development-oriented and take the social factors to the highest level in my personal development and take on myself in many ways, and when I am on the side of people.
The one who causes suffering is still human.
The people who didn't hurt, thankfully, didn't, and that's how the chaos inside me ended.
While I surrendered to the most merciful of the merciful, and since this life was entrusted to me.
I wanted my soul to come out with such a loud voice that I came back from the brink of death many times and here is when my almighty Lord gave me the opportunity to live again and again.
If it is a soul, it was trapped in my body and I easily overcame it. Finally, at least, how I was free while writing and loving, and I went over so many mountains and hills without feeling my body, and finally I reached the altitude of Divine Love.
Not one day, every day.
From eternity to eternity until every day.
When my love is sincere and my love crosses borders...
And my pain threshold and my perception threshold and my pain threshold.
I was in places by implication.
However, I was standing, and the important thing for a lifetime was to express the world hidden inside me and to reflect it to everyone, and when I built a dimensionless world, I was just hanging on the rope of mercy, maybe with that tiny speck of mercy, how I dominated the universe and everything that passed through me. While living without fear of anyone other than my Lord, who accompanies feelings and thoughts, there was nothing to be afraid of for a lifetime, after all, what would I be afraid of as a human being when I had been hit enough and imprisoned in the settlement called earth?
Borderless shadows.
Those who curse my heart.
I was as happy and free in this life as I lived and wrote.
@positivelife
