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There is something out of date, on the other hand, I try to explain it with gestures like a mime artist, and I scream as loud as I can, even though I can neither see nor be heard, of course,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…