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.