The words spilled from the pen of hope in my heart

Dreams are hidden in the crystal chandelier inside me.

My heart is a unique diamond.

No shame, no sadness, no reproach...

The red blood cells of words gnaw the white blood cells of images and a pale wind is waiting to blow in my window...

The one who warns is the Creator and the one who destroys and manufactures the feelings of contemplation, of course, to circumambulate this treasure by being able to escape even from my body with the time I am burdened with contemplation.

Maverick words and the night in assembly.

And the men with their hair on their heads, head to head with the pitch darkness, how majestic and noble they appear, and all humanity is waiting.

There is no frame for this rebellion and is it the only branch the infidel and bigot can cling to?

Somehow, after falling off the cliff many times, I don't hit the ground and I keep my dignity hidden.

I live and present the geographies I have migrated to.

There are people who understand or not.

As if it was once upon a time...

Smiles are planted in my soul and the lines are on vigilance and I bounce between the lines and I visit the heart of one reader to the heart of another, in fact everything is relative and here I am alone with the unknown.

Of course, the hope that gives hope is the words sewn by the pen.

The life I started is still my joy of life that I keep hidden.

The cruel and individual creatures whose names I unfurl a flag for are faceless and soulless, each with dark eyes, and the firmament calling me, which I set my eyes on.

If it is an invasion.

If it is a gift of the universe that I disclose.

Beyond everything I fulfill, waiting to be written and here is my soul and my diary that remain unattended and that familiar breeze on my face that carries me from far away to me closest to me.

When I write, I cannot tolerate even a spelling mistake.

I don't give a right of passage to a rebellion or perverted beings, and here are the poems and stories I write in the west of western words and a west.

My painful formation is a delusional slope.

Bargain hearts and bullion songs, unbearable abilities and hobo night fugitive grave guard.

In the lane of life.

In the culture of humanity.

With the miraculous expectation of living without the rookie putting dust on it, the troubles that I destroy with a single d/read, and the sometimes inconvenience of my existence and the stable silence of loneliness and being a VIP, whereas I am a creature in its own way, I am most proud of being human and most ashamed of my humanity, and underage images stand on my doorstep, and the faint phrases accompanying the night's light climb the straight wall, and here and here is a fire that grows and grows inside me.

There are abandoned syllables.

Knife-wielding and fugitive city bandits.

I escaped from a day equivalent to sadness and took refuge in the bosom of the night...

I think of lives hidden in women's shelters and abandoned babies and persecuted women and the oppressed...

Cruelty is not in my vocabulary.

Lie is not in my dictionary.

I am sometimes June and sometimes spring and that fire grows and grows.

My harpoon-eating heart.

The perverted property of malignant souls and who is who is unknown, here is the loneliness of people between the fingers and the mobilization of forgotten abandoned people and consciences.

The life I shovel and the roar I roar is true.

The people I have fallen for and the people I have bled for are not lies.

The ink mark on my wings is a heirloom from my father, after all, with the enthusiastic mood of being raised in a family of educators, I liquidate the season, I evacuate the season, I evacuate the dreams stuck in yesterday and I spray water cannons on the words and here they sober up and I remove their locks one by one.

I celebrate my salvation.

And I want to hang the rabid dogs on the gallows.

Humanity in crisis and broken homes and young girls and women victimized by violence and babies and children who have no sin.

My reproach is cruelty.

Souls in clusters.

A prose and a poem hidden in the fall...

Young people whose captivity is to people's souls and who have no immunity and whose lives are hidden in the barrel of a gun or in the scabbard of a sharp knife in front of a single word.

Love is my victory.

My victory is faith and judgment.

My victory is my words and my mental warehouse where I press the write button and my words that I hope for help and the dawn of dawn, the end of the night, the execution of love, the distance of happiness to the dungeons...

With my age and my mourning and my life and my pen and my humanity...