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.