My miserable diary and my miserable life story dating back to my childhood
I'm cautious now while weaving life with dreams.
To hell with all teachings.
Silence and nightmares were my counterparts, whereas enthusiasm and dreams were of course a large-scale window sill, the words that oscillated while the veil of love.
I cured the day with Divine Love and dream brokers...
I am the lonely and pink rose of the steppe.
Thousands of pieces falling from my smiling face and everyone I give credit to is fine, but where am I, where am I?
How many centuries have left the refrain of this song in my heart and in my ear?
What I write is a gigantic full-length mirror and I am hidden in the oscillation of my moving soul and my meaning and the flirtatious wind.
Every prayer time when I feel peace and that long contract that I put my signature under.
Really, where is my mind stuck, where am I coming from and where am I going?
The dilemma of my soul and my emotions in clusters: a greying bundle of grief and my burden is the firmament, then I am on the right path: sails are hoisted.
The artery of love and the altitude of loneliness, and my copula is broken and my blossom has not yet bloomed and my heart has not yet faded and will not fade.
My words are your abode.
All my loved ones I keep my eyes on.
The promenade is the white page and I am having a picnic with the ink stain I spread on the white cloth.
The crazy wind and my pen and mercy.
My prayers and dreams and all the facts that appear with their reasons.
The gloomy spirit of the season is the cook.
I just came from outside and I was not cooked in the heat, maybe it was not the place where I should be cooked, but the place I came from, of course, I put my soul in the oven, and soon page by page sentences will be cooked and my soul will turn pink, of course, roses will bloom on my face, and here I am complete.
I kicked out the day.
And the night is in my bosom.
Love was the trap I fell into:
The settlement of love and while I peep the universe with love, sometimes from a bird's eye view, sometimes I swim deeply, and it is not those who read fairy tales, but my childish heart and my childish diary and my childish love, the emotions mixed with love and the words that are reinforced, and I am about to overcome my fear with the dominant emotions, and soon I will go to the top and I will leave myself in the void:
Neither death nor birth.
Neither late nor early.
Miraculous whispers are hidden at the highest altitude and light is raining down on me.
Is it what I am nourished or is it the feelings gushing out of my heart that are re-greening on these pages where I eliminate my desolation, and even though I am under reproach, with the confidence of being the sun for a lifetime, it is not plastered with clay, with the permission of the Lord.
I am necessarily in the footsteps of the Lord.
The content hidden in my secret is the content of my soul and the lever of my emotions.
Sometimes Roman numerals play collapse.
And the words dance.
I grumble and mock the bewildered child in me and the foaming waves and the life vest I put on my soul, of course, while the ocean I jumped into without knowing how to swim is a request hidden in the honour of writing a request and a lifetime while I only asked Him.
A seasonal offensive, perhaps vigilance.
The intricacies in my soul.
And my appetite is good...
The storm that breaks in a sip of water and in the mystery of my nature, I am resistant to hunger and I train my soul and body with hunger, moreover, my miserable day, whose story dates back to my childhood, my miserable life story and my inner voice that I necessarily agree with, although it is debatable whether I have a worthy victory in my struggle with myself or not, but there is nothing like living and loving properly...
My ravaged heart.
My sub-memory that I give instructions.
I am a notarised rainbow of emotions, the words I wear on the sash on my waist and my other name hidden in my dog tags, of course, whatever I wish for, how it finds acceptance in the sight of God.
If sadness is the slap of the madman soul.
If it is sadness, I am startled.
How many thoughts confirmed by my feelings and how many miracles that occur, which I sweat in the frost of winter and chill in the heat of summer, as long as He says "be" and makes every dream of mine come true with my loaded expectation, as well as the peace that I am entitled to as much as I am aware of, I run only to my Lord with my helplessness and belongingness of being a speck of sand oscillating at the most sublime altitude where I perch in the breeze of the Divine Wind that necessarily accompanies me in every prayer time...
It is never a lie that I am as good-natured as I am incompatible
I'm a mutiny that has been silenced.
I was the last to wake up from the dead climate.
I am the rose of the season, my feelings, the nightingale of the season and the nightingale of the life I shielded my chest.
While I was an iceberg hidden in the North Pole, I drifted with the south winds to the equator.
My geography was never good, but it was a good geography that I believed my teacher kept hidden in her heart, and our geography teacher always smelled of cream and how she shone on the teacher's rostrum and smoked a cigarette, but sometimes she would sigh so deeply without inhaling.
I was afraid to love the woman, but I loved her, of course, and it was her reproachful smile that I resented, maybe that's why I turned to history lessons, but I never raised a cauldron like the janissaries.
I didn't like history either and I blamed myself for it, after all, that day my history teacher had slapped my favourite friend's face with a huge slap and rubbed his burning hands with a smile.
What if I got the highest grade in history while our friend's face was burning like a flame?
Then the painful news reached the class that our history teacher had suddenly passed away like the tribes to an unknown realm.
Most of the people in the class were indiscreet and I ignored the swearing of the male students out of decency. While even the pale sun was embarrassed, I wiped the board with my reservations and when I was covered with chalk dust, I would return to my desk like a happy hobo.
It is not only my dreams that I cured, but of course the ones I realised.
The realities are the ones that exceed my height and hurt me day by day.
I could never guess what the unholy shadows were and where they came from, and while I even chased away my own shadow, those shadows came after me in flocks.
Vindictive. Self-worshipping.
Rebellious.
Perhaps the curse of my late history teacher who escaped from the dusty pages of history, after all, as one of the victims of the rote learning system, I forgot all the dates I memorised, and then I divided the Ottoman period of stagnation and decline one by one.
I regressed or could not progress.
All over again.
I couldn't explain it and I couldn't explain it.
The choices that I know spelling mistakes, while I was in love with all my heart, I also fell in love.
The bitter memories that I could not destroy were eventually abandoned by everyone.
The vicious circle in which I go back and forth between my imagination and reality and in which I am a regular, and in which I have spent many years hungry and unexplained that I have not succumbed to the smell of a plate full of hot food put in front of me, so that while my bones are being counted, how many sizes large I put on my bones are now poured over me.
There is not a jot of it in my eyes as of the moment.
It doesn't matter in the slightest, for what purpose I tormented myself in the past, which I consider a virtue, and here I step on the tail of pain that has no nationality, and sometimes I slip like a comet.
It is never a lie that I am good-natured as much as I am incompatible, and of course my hidden successes are the return of the commands I give to my brain with my disciplined will: as I said, even if it remains in the past that I keep, most of them spread to the day and my joys and my joy of living while they are the equivalent of what I write.
A concerto, perhaps that record that is constantly spinning in my sub-memory.
While it is superior to love, some songs emphasise it and the rosy face of love, after all, even if I am a big adult as of the moment, I do not talk about love easily compared to my parents and while I was in love with love for a lifetime, it was never easy to keep love alive in me and my tongue lisping from embarrassment and my trembling voice and hands.
What is bad about being a child?
Is it growing up that is considered bad?
Then is it only adults who are considered bad?
Aren't there also cruel children?
Here is the raging mob of the class that haunted me as a child.
Discourses.
The wings of pure knowledge are what the sorcerer fears most!
Coincidence is the concerto of the senses.
I think of that marvellous word called coincidence.
Its spread in the infinite loneliness of the universe.
How that gift presented to sad hearts at unexpected times awakens the joy of living.
To meet a girl I knew from the town of cancelled memories in a poetry van in a city of sixteen million people, where I went for the first time, to sit softly next to her and smile... To hold on to that smile.
I think about the deprivation, the trappedness of people who don't even have a small coincidence, who are planned. Under this dreamy sky; the impossibility of millions of people living without depth, without friends, without love and without rebellion against injustice... I think, the thought has sharp teeth.
But that's not exactly what I want to tell. I want to tell about the sorcerer, the painter of the vastness of evil and pain. The illusion that makes us forget rebellion despite all the devastation. The terrible skill of the brush that makes people docile despite all the cruelty. It requires great mastery to cover the unhappiness of a society whose knees bleed from being brought to its knees in a bleeding society. Everyone is now a spectator there. There is no room left in the stands. Ceremoniously, the national hungry fixture has already been drawn.
I want to hang my anger on the cloakroom for a short while. It falls to the floor. I pick it up and hang it again. It falls again. My anger bounces around the house. I set it free. It's the only thing that's already free. I throw myself on the balcony. On a warm afternoon, I lock eyes with the rain that comes down suddenly like an uninvited guest. I like the sudden rain more than the expected rain. It reminds me that I am human. That rain has come to talk to you. I let myself go, I have nothing to hide. The sudden rain suits the balconies better. The way the spoilt droplets hanging from the balcony bars, lined up side by side, are so cute and full of little dreams. Because it rebels against the captivity of time and space and takes our slavery away from us.
Our slavery.
Our slavery is the sorcerer's greatest mastery.
One can tell thousands of pages about inner journeys involving "coincidences" and "rains". But this is not possible in a country that is constantly being shot in the head. The Wizard will not allow it. Peace (the peace of others) is the Wizard's least favourite thing. The Wizard has that trigger on automatic. The Sorcerer ceremoniously presents pawn exchanges. He creates clouds from the concepts of homeland, flag, race and religion and rains accepted nightmares on the peoples stuffed into pits. The Sorcerer also has hard-working men who supervise, observe, oppress and terrorise everywhere and everything. The Wizard's highly paid men call themselves patriots.
I'll leave Samuel Johnson's quote Patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels here for now, I'll pick it up again later.
This very talented painter and his men who are not painters, the errand boys of his men who are not painters, in the luxurious halls where they present the picture of chaos they have painstakingly worked on for years, do not let patriotism slip from their tongues. They speak of blood and death from the pulpits. The glory of death.
What they enjoy most is selling the meanings of flags. As they sell, they get a lot of passion, unconditional loyalty and applause in return. And most importantly, boxes of money. This is how the cover is formed; that perfect cover that makes you forget unhappiness. They do not want it to be known that they are chasing tenders. Tenders are their gods. Everyone knows what is really going on. But that knowledge is mute. Knowledge without language is dead. The only ones who don't know what is going on are those who are sent to the fronts to destroy the lives of others. But not knowing does not mean innocence. There are also those who are waiting for a saviour with hope and faith, their situation is even more sad. Although they know everything that is being done, they wait for the saviour to come and pay the whole price rather than doing something and paying the price. Whoever is waiting for a saviour, those who pretend to be saviours find and exploit him. It is his destiny to be exploited. In the queue of this whole convoy of chaos, big liars, Mr Economists, refugees, asylum seekers, enemies of asylum seekers, human traffickers, and so on and so on. In times of high occupancy and drugging, the cry of the die-hards is enormous.
They are popularly called shouters.
But when reality starts coming at them like raging horses, they jump into the clouds of silence and run away. They are the disintegration of meaning. And deception, oh that deception, that poetic dagger is monumentalised by dazzling the eye. It's the sorcerer's holy book.
I believe in coincidence and rain. I believe in weather that is above seasonal norms. I talk to insects that gnaw the curtains. I read books with cold climates in them. I go to cities I've never been to in my imagination. I wander at the bottom, holding my breath for a long time. Then I stubbornly rise to the surface and hold on to the wings of pure knowledge that defies the void.
The wings of pure knowledge are what the sorcerer fears the most.
Because on those wings there is the knowledge of resistance, struggle, rebellion and objection to deception.
Doors slammed in my face and the rough wind blows in my soul!
My dreams are not haunted these days.
Just like you emphasized, after all, you were the first to say that you are not alone in dreams.
Did you add the depression of the heart like the nausea hidden in the climate, and should I say the human losses that I could never eliminate from my hands, or should I say shame, that slipped away without my help?
What emotion do I not have that I spur, that boredom that takes me away from me and that does not go away inside me.
The wind is very cautious. I just woke up and opened the balcony door, then the doors slammed in my face and I realized that it was my own face who closed and slammed the doors.
There is no person I find face to face, except you dear, not even my mother, and I especially upset her so much that I was upset. It turned out that when she got sick the other day, it suddenly dawned on me.
I don't have a dream to present, and my dreams are not that dark and humming over me like a nightmare, and the church bells in the opposite garden are ringing nonstop, after all, it's Easter, no matter what time of night it is.
We learned from our deceased neighbors, whom I knew in my childhood and who loved me more than me, and I learned from them that there would be no human discrimination because we had a common language: of course, love and humanity.
There are so many emotions that I get fallow.
Many and many that I have planted in my heart.
The fading sunlight and the fading sun.
What does it mean to see the sun, as long as there is no darkness inside and nature, and I have known such dark people, especially lately: moreover, what I believe we are traveling from heart to heart, whatever happens to me, always comes from my ignorance.
I never accept that people have passwords and I know them as I see them, I insert them into my heart, and then all my heart vessels are blocked: either it must be angio, my feelings or I have to remove those dark human dreams from my life, but it doesn't work: I can't do this and no matter what/who I see, I can actually perceive it as I want to see it. I position it in my heart.
Angels and my inner voice are constantly giving me positions.
Just me; I say "shut up" and I can't make my heart listen, no matter who it is; age or gender or position because I feed on the language of the heart, not the bird language, and a whole world of people who say they will not let go, dear Kafka:
My hands are cracked.
My hands are empty.
In fact, my hands are bloody because I am very good at making myself bleed.
Days ago when I woke up to a loving climate…
While the month of May is smiling, it breaks the clouds...
I hit the road.
Then I was stoned.
Words turned into stones and people turned into stones: God knows everything, seeing everyone as they are, and when I take my heart, the universe warns me, but I'm not even trying, I think I'm wrong...
The lever of the soul.
The hood of words too.
I don't have a beard so they can listen to my words.
Poplar winds blowing on my head too, but as you know, I just either climb the poplar tree or fall from the top of the tree like an apple falling on Newton's head, not the gravity, I just feel the attraction of love and I always love people. Like an orderly, I constantly pour orders to my heart, even to all my organs.
I fell flat on the ground.
Since my neck is debt, to love without hesitation...
Then, as I climbed the hills, of course, I couldn't fit inside of me, and I couldn't help but with the enthusiasm that I couldn't help, I must get the best out of life and the day I didn't like was a day wasted for me, and since I promised, it turned around and came to love; Haven't I experienced what I've been through in the last quarter of my life, where I'm always sure that I am loved as much as I love you?
Disappointment and waste of time.
If there is a door that I bolted or doors that close in my face and the rough wind can't do anything with me...
I would love to make a joke, what you saw in my dream last night is not only about darkness and silence, but I escaped from myself as much as I escaped from the presence of someone following me.
Those long and boring years when I had my words fallow.
How enthusiastically I threw away tens of meters of rugs and blankets that I sat sluggishly at home and stuffed with wool and knitted after I started writing, and Kafka, don't think I'm writing nonstop and with this flood of emotions that accumulated inside of me, who knows how many hundred years I wished to live, hundreds of millions of sentences. and I would write essays and poems if my life was a few centuries old.
While weaving my loneliness couple by verse.
While pouring my majestic love to people like a gutter and dividing my heart.
I am actually a breeze of grace.
A rare also…
I'm still searching for myself that doesn't end
My dreams, I say, my dreams.
Uninterrupted and unintentional.
I define the season, I define every new day as a day, I expect the season, actually intertwined time and emotions and negative positive comments, from wise men and women, and while I live on the branches and streets where I have settled with my heart, the pavement sparrow, while I live on the branches and streets where I have settled with my heart, I will not change the peace at home for anything, of course, what is considered peace is sometimes sadness, sometimes sadness I added the words patched to the earth in the bundle.
Absolute absolute.
Sometimes a riot.
In order to absorb all the beauties with my faith in spite of the night shadows that make the revolution, and those who live indifferent to the cruel, demon and hypocrite I have reported...
I'm holding my breath.
I wasted my breath in vain...
The ones that I started to fight with my soul when I was little and that fell out of my feet and sometimes from my hands because of the loneliness between the fingers...
The floor I slip on.
The grace of the world where I slipped.
The life leading to and here is the last bullet left in my gun that I hid in poetry...
If I'm a poem, your images of law enforcement.
If I am a word, or a hollow lover, as long as my poems bless me, my violated borders, which I have not neglected to say.
The confluenced universe and the master of my heart, the words and the crease in my soul, the floor where I felt the need to iron a text or poem that I started to write while loving and living improvisationally, and hanging on the blank white page that crumpled uninterruptedly without counting the age I spilled.
Murdered souls.
The dome of heaven where I ascended, finally I reached my Lord.
Maybe even the hallmark of truth and the deadlock that pops up every time I gain awareness.
The sky, whose clasp was broken, fell to the very core of the earth as I fell, and every time the seed cracked, the neighbor woman maybe my share of the boiling gossip cauldron...
Even if I don't pay, it's bad.
Even though the stars are pouring out of my flannel nightgown.
And while my stricken heart has taken over the story.
While it is the only stain on the wall that left its mark on the day when I was broke and every time I hung my face when I was taken, it is the mechanism of my inner self where I stand up like a pen that notches the wall while there is a trace of my hand, sometimes I shrink, sometimes I resist, and sometimes I coincide with a pause period.
The face measurement is hand sized.
The heart is like the world.
The person I overestimate is the one who made me hostile to me.
The person who is good for my heart is the demon who suddenly changes my chemistry and sometimes repels a lot of hate to those who are in danger of being poisoned by the overdose of love.
When I was slaughtered and I thought that I had spread it all over my life and actually tortured myself.
Like an unread novel, I sometimes raise a cauldron.
Sometimes, like an unending novel, I count where I am in summer and summer, and when it is the diary of the climate, after a very cold day, I struggle in the morning with the longing for the April sun.
The ones that drip from the night and the words that hit the shore of the heart, maybe like a flower that suddenly fades in the majesty of feelings, the Creator, which I wish to give time until I write the most appropriate text to be written on the tombstone, and in any case, is it because of the end of what I have to say? my search for myself, which still does not end while being caught and flying.
I've never been a misfit person
That world where I suffocate is, of course, my intimacy, cross-legged and swaddled.
My words are never isolated and my voice is still cheerful and my genealogy is still Sunshine.
My ancestors, my grandfathers and many people I have read mercy on, maybe I am a dervish looking for his cap, I am the lodge of my heart.
The wind that slays love and my feelings hanging in my temple.
If I want to get profit, my hibiscus feelings that I boycotted life and the day and caused a chain accident, sometimes like lifting a cauldron, sometimes like a forgotten child somewhere, most of all, to turn my suffering into joy. .
A land, maybe the land of my soul.
The reality and all the people that do not leave me with a fake dream are patting me on the back.
Is it the veil of the day? What good is it when other veils are hidden inside the veil?
There are many visible and invisible things and songs with an incomprehensible accent, like a talent that emerges in my inner accent, and I paint a picture of emotions whenever I sit at the desk and protest everything that triggers my sleep.
My eyes are not sleepy.
I've never been a misfit person, but as it turns out, it didn't suit me and those who came after me, I never put my inner child to sleep and I always kept it alive so that my innocence would not end.
Sometimes when I have no obligation.
While I have no meaning.
What I report is myself: my identity card is undecided and I have not yet decided what I come across, but the traveler in me is constantly poking and I can't offer an explanation, since I'm a bud that doesn't bloom all the time, since I'm sneaking out of my heart's garden where I'm rooted and whistling mercy, I know when it's dry I know that my Lord will not leave me and as my tongue and palate dries up, I shed tears a lot, I mourn a lot, I intend a lot, and that sudden downpour.
An apocalyptic crowd that sometimes invades me and boycotts my loneliness.
If there is a call from the heavens, what makes my ears ring and here I am, I raise the bar of happiness and love even higher and I want to be on the top and kiss the clouds on the forehead but it doesn't work, I can't do it and I fall from the ground, while my guard is falling, tears are falling from my eyes, finally people are falling from my eyes.
The ones I have trapped in my rib cage.
Sometimes peace, sometimes sadness, sometimes the other emotion that I neglect.
To write a longing.
It's an intention that goes through me.
I would like to inform you one by one, while I am going to tell the birds that my heart beats like them, and I explain that I am not a bird-brained in this universe where I love bird's eye view and rain, I am passing like birds from one hope to another, maybe falling from a cloud to the earth.
My feelings that I brought into line are that I never feel ashamed.
The good days that I'm longing for and I'm waiting.
While the night is boiling, I only ask for a breeze from my God and it blows like a wind, I remember with a longing hidden in my food and I evacuate yesterday, anyway, it is hidden inside me.
The call of the season is that sometimes someone ignores me and somehow I boycott by writing words that signify my existence and my silence.
A different color every day.
Every poem is a lifetime.
A torture hidden in every life, considered a virtue by some.
Nice breeze to my stagnation which is suspense.
Nice occasion to my words that shovel love.
My good deed is unspoken.
Many followers of your love that never gives up.
I like love from loves, while envying the season, I know that I am a free season and like children filling the recreation areas, I skip with enthusiasm like the children who fill the recreation areas, I pass on the troubles and love, I offer my condolences to my loved ones, perhaps in the crystalline voice of the nightingale, to all the flowers that died, and beyond being a flower, I extend the harvest of my feelings sometimes like plump spikes My eyes, which I bow down and sometimes with my head erect, spread to the heaven inside me, and sometimes the cruel and oppressed that I stand up, my love and sad smile, and I know that the nuance of love will accompany other seasons every day...
I would never skip my homework accompanied by mixed feelings and restlessness
I was the only regular in the abandoned classroom.
Whatever is hanging in front of me is like a painting that I actually hang on the wall with my hands.
Everything was hidden in the climate of my heart, every person and the abandoned classroom that I had plunged into without even making excuses.
I activated the X-ray machine inside me and documented the day and the class one by one. That day, in fact, it was still hitting at certain intervals every day.
I came to the filling of almost all people, especially my father and I did not make any additional effort to win the High School exam. I was lucky because my primary school teacher was a unique teacher and a good listener and second mother.
I had huge dictionaries in my bag and I was giving due credit to earthworks and being a good student at work.
According to some, my virtues were torture.
I was exempted from gym class because I was not allowed to sweat because I had allergic bronchitis, and I was getting injections every week to gain resistance against pollen and cold.
That abandoned classroom I had quietly entered I guess I was proud to be an abandoned student too.
Our prep class was disbanded and we were placed in many classes separately, and I was the new student of the class and a few more of my friends came from that disbanded prep class, here is the hardest working class!
After all, I was having difficulties in my new class, all the people were already grouped and ostracized from the first day, and our English teacher, or rather, our C class regular teacher, was keeping me under constant surveillance and unfortunately the woman's blood didn't warm to me, and I could never please her no matter what I did. .
With the mixed feelings and uneasiness of being an abandoned classroom and being an excluded student, my teacher constantly changed my homework and my place.
Sometimes he would send me to the back row of the class, and sometimes he would make me sit alone in the front row.
I was going back and forth like a pawn, I was a target board on top of it, and when I made the slightest mistake, our teacher would get very hungry and I would stay where I was with teary eyes.
I didn't have the words yet.
What is resentment or allusion, I do not know yet.
My job was to be a student, moreover, I was a hardworking and determined student.
Shut up too.
I wasn't obscure, I was just respectful.
Unchanged from yesterday to today and…
When I was playing as the pawn of the class and no one could keep up with me, I could be assigned to another row at any time and I did until what happened that day...
He was a brown and toothy boy, perhaps the noblest rebel in the class.
The classroom was so crowded that whenever a fight caused a fight, the child and the teacher were the apple of the eye of our English teacher, who didn't like me.
Whether it was incompatible or not was not in my interest because I was only concerned with myself and my course, and while I could never have guessed what was going to happen to me.
It was a nice day. It was nice every day for me, after all, being a student is identical with me and studying is my duty, and I entered the classroom that day and headed to my desk until someone called me:
You are no longer sitting there.
Who was it really to say that, and when I looked back, I saw that the boy was grinning wickedly at me. What, was he going to decide where to sit or not?
I didn't even make a sound and headed for my turn. On the other hand, he came running and took my belongings and took them to his desk.
Now we are four-eyed friends.
And that was missing.
But was I emphasizing her as a squint or traitor?
I will suddenly find peace in the bondage of love
A rough wind is pounding inside me. It's like the universe incubated.
To the wound of the night where I present a section of my stricken dreams, and the flickering and moving stars inside me, sometimes a picture I draw, sometimes the earth on which I crouch. On the curved roads of your life, I wait like an abandoned child, the night of my soul and the shift of my loneliness, and the darkness with which I exchange, many people whom I have avoided in order not to cause another renunciation, which I have warned my soul to be as ragged as I sway in clusters of dreams.
There are feelings that need to be aligned, a lever that can be hidden, and my battered loneliness, sometimes the sky where I stare, sometimes I rock a cradle hidden in the darkness of the night that eats rooster candy, maybe I swing in it.
I vouch for my heart, which has a lot of credible feelings, many people, and the disclosure of which life has become a mess.
He's a stampede detainee.
People who overflow from that rebellious, spiteful soul, I love dryly, maybe too late, maybe too early.
It's a hard-necked season and I have a headstrong temperament, but one thing I know: I have lived and will live without compromising my truth.
My tearful eyes are hidden in trembling silhouettes.
My green eyes turn a hazel-like color green, so much beauty, so many trees and leaves, and the vast land of my heart where I planted flowers soon passes into the rain that will ring, after all, I am verse and maybe I couldn't fit in the place where I took so much shelter in my Lord.
Words that will explode from the night of the best man's day.
A wind hidden on my left, sometimes cold, sometimes in the captivity of love, I will suddenly find peace.
I'm not whining.
I don't care for the leaking shadows.
There are many things that heal, maybe a refugee predicate and so many hidden subjects, here is the quilt I spread over my soul and how tired I am, here is a strange abductor who still hopes for help from love as the ice melts as the night falls.
I have presented to people that I will never immigrate from the climate of love.
While we came to the world to love, we...
The people whose conversations grow in the shadow of the endless haste and their souls and the blank rhetoric just as the stone turns white, and here I am recording every minute of the day with an infallible hand and inscription, but I do not regret the orphan child inside me, moreover, the answers I received in return for the love of so many people are like slaps on my face. like, and even if I leave the door open, there are those who slam the door.
Shape-shifters.
Its image is ladylike and sometimes it is a jester.
My brave heart, the mourning and the breeze, which is sometimes not missing, what kind of a relative text will I make of those who come after me whenever I collect them, you know, the fringe rhetoric?
My inner wound and patch.
Even though the voices accompanying the sadness, I know that my joy of life, which is sometimes blocked, I do my share that someone will set a barrier in front of me anyway, and I plant seeds in the idle hearts of people and sleepwalking images, as quickly as I interrupt my sleep, I skip subtitles to the past day and life.
A riot sometimes ringing in my ears.
I'm not even in reproach, I'm never offended.
My intuitions are like poppies blooming in the countryside, and I am not crushed, I kiss the soil and accompany the sprouts that grow like saplings and every new day when I can't even touch anyone if it's a flower.
I live with a self-data and add a word to the night
A port of blue in the bed of dreams!
The climate of the heart that anchors my life sometimes collapses to the ground, sometimes to the top of the sky, to the top of the sky, where I am placed in a perimeter busy with hugs, perhaps my so-called destiny, which is left over from the stories I made up, is of course my bibliography, destiny.
If I am a cloud, angry.
If I'm a rosette, her bright eyes.
It must be a rank, the wisdom of humanity and a battalion of soldiers marching rapping inside me, consisting of words that raise cauldrons in crazy geographies.
The mystery of the universe, the mystery of which is hidden in the skin of the night, the sadness that I have covered with my eyes, the sadness about the disappearance, the moonlight about disappearing, to the Creator as much as I am loyal to the Creator, the lights of the day that remain far away from falling into many traps set by fate.
I am now.
later.
The eyes unknown hidden in my immaturity.
A lifetime, even if thousands of emotions to be recorded go into chaos.
My criminal record is hidden in my white face, nice supplication
My subject is poetry, my predicate, story, my tidy loneliness, and sometimes the tremor of the dawn, which I count as dark clothes, darkens my loneliness that appeals to every drop of my eye…
I released my dreams.
It's obvious that I coincided with a seasonal bombardment, flying pollen makes me feel like spring has come and I didn't feel offended by sneezing and itching, my favorite allergy, of course, thank goodness I could eat strawberries to the fullest, at least when it got cheaper.
Everything cheap is on display.
That city thug who shoots his lover like the lover who puts the mail, however, when the court day comes, he will be present with the most elegant suit and tie.
I could not possibly like the supply-demand relationship, however, I always took the economy class and while I was waiting for my height to grow, only one more diploma was added to my glorious history.
I didn't like the come-and-go grades either.
If you're going to take notes, you'll fly, and then you'll be involved in that bell curve.
Life is like a laxative sometimes, or there are people who make a lot of gas and make me gas, of course they never know how expensive diesel is in how much time, so I drink a lot of water, at least I try, of course, the water globe inside me and the earth I live in are not alike and I rain confetti nonstop. off the top of my head.
There are words that annoy.
There are images, lots of fluids.
Also, whenever I feel bad about the pouring rain, the sky accompanies me and of course I lied, after all, I am neither a saint nor a dervish, but I must say that there are many things hidden in my dervish lodge, at least a world where I can dream a lot. I have to make a reservation first so that I can get rid of gravity, maybe it's time to burn wood, I don't know. While people can still be cold in April, I keep pulling back to the deformed season.
Sometimes I can't take my eyes off the sky.
And sometimes I compile an army from the ones that fell out of my eyes. Memories hidden in the fountains of my eyes are the ones that stuck me to the day. For example, I envy that village girl with red caps waiting in line for water in dry fountains, for example, and I come and go to the head of the faucet incessantly, and every time it hisses, I imagine myself in a distant village, after all, all remote villages are my village, my hometown.
I haven't been able to put my feelings into action yet after a boring day that I've thrown away. Maybe I'm tempted by the patrolling police, and I can arrest at any moment a ridiculous word, at least I chain it to the page and I draw a huge circle around it, I add whatever emotion is hidden inside me one by one.
I live with a dedication and add a preamble to the night because the day I can't put any pressure on, I get stuck as the day moves away quickly, here I am, on the counter of the night and I am deceived by the moon that covers the sky, sometimes with the flickering of stars, of course, I am in love with the full moon, sometimes my heart does not fill, or what is inside me that escapes one by one. And here is my anger, which caused discord with life after a day spent in social gatherings, and that I was constantly betrayed and repulsed all the usurer mentalities.
I have to reserve the strongest seat before the night is over so that when I wake up, I can dry it gently and meet the day firmly, of course, it should be secured, I should note meticulously, like every transaction I did in primary school, especially when people think that going back and forth in plus and minus infinity is a crap.
What was it?
What had happened to be a variable unknown when it was a constant coefficient.
I think if there is a result of analytical thinking, if there are no unknowns, I should have set up as many equations, but I just set up the equivalent, otherwise what is it possible to lay my head and sleep?
Cheering with my words the alphabet hidden inside me
Now every line, "*Why did I write this line too?*" I angrily add to the previous one. I feel it is my duty to keep my saintly existence up to the last minute with the same vision. Because any other kind of behavior will be found strange by people who have a small relationship with me and have a little interest in me.
However, now and then I lose my cherished existence from time to time. But my wounded mind. For now, he turns to me because he hasn't found a country to go to yet. I know that no one will believe the tale of the saintly existence that goes back and forth until this mind has completely abandoned me.
I lent my dreams to the night and I feel the hope in me fade as much as I can't breathe.
There are dream intervals in reality.
It's like five fingers are not the same, and here I am doing finger calculations, one finger is missing, it is obvious that someone has just shaken hands and one of my fingers has been removed. am i surprised? Never.
Is my name on my tag a little dirty?
Is the stampede in me your work?
I am a breeze perched in the night.
I neglect the day with the dream of an old picture and a song, and I live with the past inside me, even knowing that it is unhealthy.
Geographies without climate are just a short distance away.
Where am I now hidden and imprisoned…
There are those who dare, its size is huge.
There are rotten dreams in a box of dreams that rot the others.
I have thoughts that do not fill the hole of my dreams, as well as emotions.
His supply is figuring, my muse diverged from the chimney that I just fired from the door, moreover, a burning chimney and steaming smoke...
My muse, with his burnt-smelling body and his empty throat, is placed on my shoulder this time and I push him:
I will not write anymore.
A drop of tear is flowing from her eyes, but I am quite determined.
While trying to ask, I pinch my arm and it hurts incredibly, but once I write, my whole soul will burn, how will I take care of my feelings and orphaned sentences that will burn even worse?
You are already an orphan.
If he tries to say this, of course my muse will.
I don't know how to align, my hasp.
While a redif for sadness should offer a right of way.
With my stiffened soul and resentful pen, I poke the words and cheer, the alphabet hidden inside me so that sometimes twenty-nine letters are not enough, I write with enthusiasm and my destiny that I have accepted.
Since I have a destiny that I cannot write.
It's as if a cylinder has passed over the sadness that I have stopped writing.
My heart, which I do not put dust on, is constantly oppressed and shared, sometimes ignored, and while I still resist loving people...
There are so many emotions that suddenly appear.
With the taste and enthusiasm of starting from the ones digit and traveling to infinity, I both praise and sometimes think that I am useless.
Everything is so intertwined.
How late the magic and misery of the season is.
That breeze that the season neglects is the one that I take out while I am still living the winter, inside and outside, and sometimes when I want to make an eyebrow.
I have a bird's eye view of the night and the city from the window of the day when I refer to my sad heart and pull the collar of my muse, after all, today I boycotted my feelings and dreams, with the reason that I declared a mobilization to gather the confluence of my heart and the table top, and everything that is near me, even everyone, is inside of me. when you have memorized the distances relative to the fact that it is hidden and my muse asks me with her sullen face?
So did you get permission from me?
This time I ask:
Did you get permission from me while causing all this writing?
After the handshake, I see that my lost finger is mounted instead of having been imprinted on top of it, with my feelings and thoughts and I stay at work, staying with myself and staring at the article I put a temporary point on, and even when the tip is starting to burn, I'm hastily extinguishing the fire of my soul and I don't even know which of the things I wrote is real and which is the product of my imagination.
Maybe there are other questions I should ask myself: for example:
Why did I write this line?
While I certainly have an answer to give…
How can I not write when writing gives a relief that corresponds to the breath I take?
I'm close to the jugular vein in your neck where I string pearls of emotion
I'm close to the jugular vein in your neck where I string pearls of emotion
Clusters of dreams are obviously documents of betrayal and dreams hidden in the face of reality.
While that song sung by the fragile birds, who have unanimously agreed to the concerto of the universe, is of course the daylight that drives the joy of the earth, and our soul and body that we surrender to the night, and then the bones we remove, the poems are also the address of the day that ends and the life that ends.
Evil dusty roads.
In the carpenter's shop, the tools and hardware are in your heart.
I have stories.
I have a yesterday that I emulate, but…
You have a past of doubt that I will never pronounce, let there be everything in the past, let there be things considered success, and here I am rewriting life and words that correspond to my existence when it means being nothing.
Where being one corresponds to being united, it spreads and obeys sentences and happiness.
The words that I bounce with my imagination are that I fit a day into square brackets and that I can easily love destruction, hope, and loss, love, and in any case.
Someone poisoned by my overdose love.
While your expeditionary words and traveler images are sobbing, I sway like a dervish in the climate of the night, even though I don't carry stones, my arms get tired, but I never hesitate to open my arms.
A ritual day and a moving night.
Glorious defeats are hidden in my tag.
Dark clouds full of enmity or acrimony, and I'm waiting where mercy fills my heart.
The supplicating breeze.
The eyes are the steps of the dome of the sky and the stairs that I climbed based on the sky…
Every heart corresponds to a star and I am the North Star.
I am a cloud in love with the moonlight, maybe my clock and inner voice that I set for tomorrow, although I do not know the nature of what is waiting on my horizon.
I lament to the wind and commemorate my yesterday and make vows to the love I have come of age.
Sun-faced traveler.
The night-eyed woman and her face are familiar poems.
The dust I shovel in front of me and the shavings I shovel with is your life.
Sometimes there are those who set a set, sometimes I have a rest.
There are some that I comment on my day, and sometimes the laces of my heart are untied while walking.
People sometimes scribble like clustered clouds.
Prettier as a duck like a swan bird.
There are mixed feelings in my inner voice and I am told to a bad voice, sometimes I am popular with my silence, sometimes I am silent and my pen speaks and there are people who revive my heart.
The countryside of the heart where I planted smiles.
The expulsion of domination-laden darkness.
I declare the evil to God and the lien has come, I am foaming at my yesterday, and forgetting the opportunities that escaped my hands, I sit down and derive thousands of sentences.
A crime sometimes happens around me.
On the other hand, those who rule are exposed, and the scaffolding that I cross-legged is of course the architect of my soul, the almighty Lord, and the words that engage are sometimes I eliminate and sometimes I withdraw.
I am a lost climate where I actually buried my yesterday.
I'm obvious enthusiasm loving my day.
I am a dreamer and my soul is imprisoned in hope.
Thanks to the Creator, the Divine Confidence of Love, the obstacles I overcame from yesterday are an axis that reached my day and many things are an axis in the past, and the universe is also a dilemma in me, and I killed my handicapped soul with happiness. clock: a fixed time period in which the hour and minute hands do not interfere with each other…
Birth and death.
yesterday and today.
My guidance and strength.
The intrusive wind, swept away sadness, the shadows of love.
All kinds of emotions, where I feed mostly from my pain and the water of the fountain called sadness, my heart that sometimes fills with tears, or all the darkness and mud that I have cleaned is somehow thrown on me, but I am not offended and when I am a song that I refer to, my joy of living and here I am in the day and do it inside me. -the merry boy playing the grizzly and the Divine Power who took care of him even though he was an orphan…
While I have always felt strongly the one close to the jugular vein on my neck, where I had pearls strung out of the emotions that I could hardly turn around and be equipped with, and only asked for it from Him, my peace and commitment to life that bestowed and recurred at the right time even what I did not want...
If I'm a poem I haven't written yet.
If I am a novel, the summer never ends.
A story is hundreds of hidden inside me.
My route is in the direction of the Divine Light…
My real memory is the library of my mind, I reach out my hand
My existence is not stolen!
The ignorance of that divine void, and here is the loneliness on its bed, handfuls of stars are hidden in my hands, the scent of lavender, the delicate texture of love, and the survivability of my sadness, which I have pinpointed, are my dreams.
I'm not imaginary.
Whatever my real memory is, on the dusty shelves of the library of my mind, I stretch out my hand and my heart, hidden in the order of the pen set on a gold tray, where the life that I do not object to coincides with gigantic gaps and here are the syllables that came out of my heart.
My face is hidden in the patchwork of night.
The cries of my chin and pen that I hold...
There are stories that I have imitated, recorded in my past and hidden in my coffee cup, forgotten in my coffee cup, and paper boats that I see in my fortune, slowly swaying in a river in the light of my mind.
I am silent.
Simple.
Your kind.
It's the Lord's offering far beyond what I'm performing.
Cluster willow.
Oleander flowers.
The prose of being a flower and the lofty mountains are on the slopes of my mind.
I am village.
I am a peasant.
I am city.
I am a forgotten spark in the crowd of the city and a fire growing inside of me, my sweet words I soaked in pain with the taste of plain coffee, my poems in the eyes of the images.
The only Power that dominates.
The demon that doesn't fall for people's frail assets.
The poems that are currently in series with the sigh of the oppressed are the keepers of the night, whose forked voice is beating on the shores while the wind and rough waves are beating in the climate of the heart.
My starry eyes.
The non-flowing tear of the fountain whose water has dried up.
The climates, the grains, the hearts, the humidity, the seasons in vain.
I'm breaking the silence.
People are silent.
I'm testing the sounds.
Most of the people have passed out.
I'm a silent discourse, and the shadows prevailing in the universe in his eyes and how dominant my inner voice is as much as I'm declaring, but I don't give up.
Hidden in the sound of a siren making a hush.
Nurse giving a hush sign.
My life in school corridors.
I am a student in one class and I teach in another class, and my students listen with great interest.
I am telling because I am a hardworking student and my teacher listens with all his heart.
Do I have to be a student or a teacher in order to be understood or explained?
I've been writing nonstop for ten years.
My words are a part of me.
I'm reading, what do I read for a lifetime besides what I haven't read?
What is my writing next to the thousands of stories and poems waiting to be written?
Destroying my loneliness.
I am a little bird who has just learned to fly and the memorandum given by the glorious sky and here I am landing on a broken branch.
I'm singing.
They don't sound.
I like.
They don't fall off.
The darkness that advises me to be silent, I am the light.
While the little owl is jealous of my loneliness, I have not been separated from my flock.
The universe and God I listen to.
It is a judgment given suddenly that I am at peace, and I am innocent and oppressed.
The crammed earth.
The cruel crow, who is announcing his anger, and the loud crow who advises me to keep quiet.
My nightingale, I am in love with a rose.
My rose is after the nightingale.
My flower.
Bud.
My snowdrop is buzzing when it's cold.
My blooming spring.
What I can't see until I open my eyes and that's where my heart eye comes into play.
I am the season of the seasons, the thousands of seasons hidden inside me.
I am a prisoner of love, the kindness of life, the blessings of yesterday, the blessings of today, I am full of tomorrow's and ripe ears, and my neck is thinner than hair, only from the Lord's presence.
A fury: that I should be silent.
A longing: the one that breaks the silence of a lifetime.
I do not speak: the pen writes.
I respect the universe with my silence and my heart is fidgeting.
My pen, which comes into play due to my silence, and here are the angels covering me, and even if I sleep, the pen does not sleep.
Even if I comply, order does not suit me.
If my silence is a pen for life, the wind of the universe, even if I remain silent...
I'm in this awesome age where even a greeting is spared
My loneliness hidden in this difficult road to fall into since I was caught in the shower of a dream.
I try to open people's hearts with the screwdriver in my hand, but none of them respond, still I avoid my eyes as much as I love and the people I love.
What I never exaggerate is that God knows first of all and that I have been rejected no matter who I am.
The manifestation of reuniting with myself as soon as possible was because I escaped neither love, fairy tales, nor the realities of the world, perhaps for a lifetime.
I am not under your dominion, my time is because I am a spaceless and timeless creature, moreover, I am still far ahead of the age, I do not think from time to time that I am behind the times, thankfully, every time I consult with the only dimensionless entity, I come to my senses, so I love the change hidden inside me, maybe I am a movement, remove the points I skipped The dreams I dreamed are sentences that I have knitted from feelings that did not go into the ax because I could not stick to an ax as much.
To people while living unintentionally and unable to provide evidence.
People and dreams that tend to disappear every time I chase after losses.
The cold breeze of the season, I refer to my heart with a spring temperament, on the other hand, I come across other things at night in my never-ending cannon wind and dark eyes, unlike people.
It's a divine texture.
Words exist.
How ostensibly weak and frail am I not with what is happening on the radar of my emotions?
I'm sure that I see a mirage whenever I meet myself and my Lord, as much as the reality imposes on me, where my endurance is tested and I've been walking and going in narrow corridors. If possible, I would write what I wrote by walking down that corridor.
The bottleneck my soul has fallen into and the one I go back and forth as my heart gets narrower.
My still unfinished search, where the day turns into night, and as I find and find new clues, I try to open the knot that is hidden inside me, just as I was about to open it and when I reached the result, of course, from the beginning.
My million heart.
Myopic eyes.
My miniature dreams.
In short, the mosaic of the universe and the feeling of eternity that I surrender to my urge to love and write.
What a furor, on the other hand, I could never fit in with people, so I stayed awake for a lifetime, my heart and eyes, and while it was disabled, it suddenly started to work for a long time.
And it doesn't have a stopper, so let's see if my voice is easy, I've always silenced it, until I set sail for new discoveries with the tiny d/readings of the pen.
Don't think that I'm having trouble writing.
Do not think that I am not having difficulties while living.
And here are two intertwined actions and complementing each other.
First of all, I fall on the road from different feelings and angles, and I never know what will happen when I write my article/poem, I guess from the beginning: I'm in the whole.
However, before that, I focused on all my feelings, almost everything, every person, and finally I managed to explode.
This is confusion.
This chaos is hidden inside of me.
What I did to me and…
Do not think that you will hurt me more than the damage I have done to me.
I don't care if you burn it, and I don't have a handbrake either, and that's why I feel full speed, I write at full speed though...
It's not clear if I'll get anywhere though...
Well, I've learned a lot of things, and I've reached the point I need to reach by writing, and I've learned and no secrets or passwords are hidden inside me, moreover, I have deciphered the code of the universe badly.
First of all, I love people imperceptibly now, and the truth of the matter is I'm a chronic love cheeky because love, love, being loved is my food, and here's the wall I hit: bingo!
What a joke: why?
How I was sure that I was reciprocated while spending a lifetime on love and loving, and I realized a short time ago that it was unnecessary to think that I was loved, so many people misled me, and then in my fight with myself, this time it was my self that I tortured myself a lot, and I used it as a virtue. like how I saw it.
Shouldn't love have a separator?
In this awesome age where even a greeting is spared, people are now doping to their egos and their indomitable souls.
I know everything so well that I immediately understand who is lying and I do not have difficulties in this context, I know, I am alive, but I must have a difference, because I consult with my inner voice, which does not slow down, when something is not going well for no reason and I have been in seclusion for a lifetime. Is it night time: my pen comes into play, don't ever think that what I wrote is just these and never think that I am weak, even though I sometimes feel like my arm is broken, there is someone who catches up with me.
I expel those who are likely to leave from my soul
I'm aware that my eyeglasses have increased in the last few years.
I mourn my old low glasses trick.
I don't have the luxury of going to the doctor myself, I don't particularly like the measurement of glasses full of germs, but my cold hands tell me other things.
I miss the days when I played the piano as if that wasn't enough.
I'm writing in a hurry. Actually no!
Do I love in a hurry, but out of nowhere?
This is also the wrong question and the answer is unpretentious, but I'm still looking for an elegant answer.
I don't care about my mind while I'm spoiling it with coming and going, but now I'm kicking out those who are likely to leave, while also preventing them from entering thanks to that huge hat I put on the door to the chimney.
I'm not worried about the favorite words that do the most in word inflation, either, I guess I'm skipping rope in the poignant lines of the time when I postponed going back to the beginning after I wasted.
My flirt attached to my hair is like the wind, the clouds that darken before the downpour, and I'm in love with this wind, moreover, I have no idea who it is, and there is no tail pain in this wind.
I command my mind, which is tingling with menthol longing:
Stop thinking.
He also never likes spelling mistakes and being incredibly nervous.
And those who make fun of me by implication.
But what's all this to me? I do what I want, write and love, moreover, as a bonus, while I opened a separate file for the ones I hate, and loving words were cut in the rush of friends, while he spared his mercy, supposedly loving people.
Those who knock on the door of my house or try to raid my house with empty words or full stirrings.
While my head is getting angry, I never blush and I reproach the people of the world that I am isolated in the accompaniment of an article in which I minimize my literary anxiety.
Is it my order that they rule?
Or those who protest me, whatever emotion is stacked in my soul?
my identity.
While I have already settled my identities, and I have come to live the most comfortable period of my life with annotation to live carefree...
The incubators are laying eggs one after the other, and I understand from the flowing white of the cracked egg that the evil has miscarried again.
People deceived by my silence.
Those who are even jealous of the enthusiasm in my voice.
Wherever it came from, I can't help but tell it now.
My dear friend, whom I opened the doors of my home and my heart in our long friendship, then the one who gave me a lot of air and smiles with the power of financial sanction in the bottleneck I fell into and in that long dark corridor.
Then our friendship exploded when I said that I gave private lessons to his nephew.
What happens next…
Years later, my friend called me and gave me a brief order, in a style that did not fit into the title of request, and I translated dozens of pages in one night and looked into her eyes to see if she would be my friend again.
Words.
People.
Sometimes I can't come up with words for people: ah, those hopeless people.
When one of the weather vanished into history like a floating balloon and I was still worrying about my glasses number, I came into the eye and my glasses fell apart.
Actually, that's not our point.
The truth is, dear friends…
A miracle that suddenly came true after so much destruction.
At the end of the troublesome process, I came to my mind, of course, when the wind was quite strong and blowing in the opposite direction, and my memory that I turned inside out, and my sub-memory, and finally, this time when the wind stopped in a confidant climate, I blew the wind.
While I ate my mind with cheese and bread, as a result of the revelation coming from above, I could not find peace without scribbling something every day and even the peace I found lost my peace.
Whatever is going on and here is the figurative presence of Divine Peace.
Not today.
Not yesterday at all.
My feelings, my runaway soul and my faith, but lately there have been so many things that I can't understand, and I can't stop thinking about it because I'm tired of getting sick.
While one of my friends said that I had evil eye, another emphasized that the solution of the problem was in prayers, well, while I have always practiced this for a lifetime.
While I can't get out of a painful period and I look forward to it.
While I can't put my best behind with the excitement and enthusiasm inside me.
My Divine Confidence, my color and my nature and my prayer.
I don't look at people and lie just so they'll approve of me
I am on the throne of dreams, dear stranger.
I am a fire that silence hears!
I hug the mature body of my inner voice and mature ears, while the guide of the life spent in social life is the one that springs from me.
I just feel and know what others don't see.
The barley barn of my mind.
Free travel and positive negative words.
I have just discovered that I am hidden in purgatory and I have only just realized that my red blood cells are actually eating their white blood cells.
I'm full, I'm full to the brim, I still do the loading and checking of your life and I rewind at every cry.
I don't have my own subset.
I am identical, there is not one climate, one person.
The divisive truths and the lies told while looking me in the eye...
The domineering invasion of the universe and also and I somehow heal the pain and sadness inside me, like an additional tax that is accrued, as well as the so-called discount on food.
Since these last few days, I have been leading a boycott hidden in the dominion of the Creator and the ruling destiny and the void dreams...
After all, the firing squad is ready and I never like waiting for the bus at the bus stop.
I am not the rich daughter of the Fairy King, on the contrary, I am the Fairy King himself, and while I presented my feelings on a golden platter, should I be in favor of people and the cruel devil with high heels, or should I be sad that I burned the ships?
Everywhere, everybody everywhere.
Such a raid that it turned into an epidemic on earth.
Who knows what pressure of my love and here I am back from the pole again.
Silence, dear stranger?
Do not be surprised by the adjective "beloved" that I put on the subject's head even though I do not know you, because I never approach strangers with prejudice, moreover, I am so sure that strangers will not hate me: well, eat the stake for a lifetime, eat:
They did not get enough. What about me?
I am resistant to hunger, dear stranger, and no matter how you look at it, who knows how many meals I missed in a lifetime, and the rhythm of the advice I gave ear to ear.
What is our topic?
There is no issue, there are thousands of them, while I can't decide where to start anymore, so I left my soul, mind and body to the flow of life.
Why am I writing?
There is no explanation for this, and I do not write for anyone, although until recently, it was enough for me to read only a few people, but I disqualified this thought.
I am whole.
I'm whole.
I am a fire extending from minus to plus digits, and my destination is of course eternity.
The one I display with my identity and stance? Well, I'm not like the ripe fruit in front of the market counter, on top of that, when the market uncle fills you with your bruises and you are so sure that you bought the freshest fruit...
I seem to hear you say, "This won't be that much", actually I read what's going through your mind, especially after how many nights have my dreams come true.
I neither make it up nor make it up: I just respectfully obey the presentation of the universe and do what I have to do, as I always do in a lifetime.
It is not known who owns both money and faith, but today, everyone lives at the highest rank and declares that they live as they should, and those who lie while looking into our eyes, of course, as always, otherwise, would all this rebellion, so much murder, corruption and deceit be popular?
Really, does it matter who you are, by the way, or to whom I think I'm telling all this, and here's my breaking point and the one I got rid of at the last moment.
I should have been chosen the sucker of the year, of course, I was the sucker of the village and the city, after all, I carried out the tasks that I had undertaken for a lifetime, moreover, I did not receive a penny and I also gave a lot of myself while spending it out of pocket. can't touch me and nobody can put me under suspicion, and am I successful in that?
Thank God, my forehead is open, dear stranger and no one can enter my personal private space, though miserable and selfless hypocrites are too eager to peck me, do I give them credit?
Apparently weak.
He's apparently frail.
Apparently incompetent.
No, I will never allow that, and any miserable person who gave me the power has already learned his lesson and will get it in God's sight.
I can be considered incompatible from time to time because I don't imitate someone in order to be accepted in a group or society, or look at people I don't like and lie just so they'll approve of me, I never lied but I will never tell them, I don't give up my respect for them just so that someone won't get hurt, and here's what I fell into. The last situation is that I was under suspicion just because our ideas didn't match, and my slander and dignity were slandered.
I neither plagiarize nor cite, I do not write, of course, when necessary, I cite the quotations as a source and write my article with the heart of my mind.
I have words that have fallen into my heart because of the people who lost their greetings
You are a city that burns in the stampede of my heart.
Please turn off all the lights before I die.
My words are neither iridescent nor prohibitive:
My hatred and anger at the demon that blew its curse and the burning lights blinding me.
If I am a word, what do I mean and why don't people call me by my name?
I'm hidden in climates, I'm never burdened with a dilemma...
My most reckless wind is arrogant and arrogant when God creates me every day, especially when my right is defeated, then I turn inside out to such an extent that even the sun is jealous of me and protects me in the heaven of my heart.
There were days when I was close to going insane and it was fate that patted me on the back.
In the fires where I faced death, the Creator saved me even before it burned down and went out.
My only luxury is to love and do not look at this ground where I lay with my resistance and resilience and the wisdom of faith, you just look at my forehead and focus on my eyes and even that I am a poem and even many poems.
I've swam in the vastness since I was a child.
I crushed the viper snakes with my heart.
I have never stopped loving people despite their poisonous words and looks...
I was always sure that I was loved until a few years ago.
Love was my exposure and love was my cure and I stayed as close to my Lord as I did not break my heart, and he was always the only one who did not leave me.
Do I really have a face to ask for much from Him?
Maybe there is, maybe not, but he is, isn't he:
The one who said "only asking me".
Sometimes I forget what is missing, what I worry about and I just blink, instead of praying "asking for help".
The almighty, omnipotent Divine Power, and every time I ask for help, I don't know which one to catch up with, and it grows so fast that the fussy child in me suddenly calms down.
There were days when I lost my word.
The greetings I give in a space that grows day by day do not return...
My derelict existence, the words that I loved for no reason and the words that fell into me because of the people who lost their greeting, and here are the words that He gave the best answer to those who thought they had brought me to their knees.
So limitless is the reservoir of the Lord.
My only treasure is my love and faith.
I live in a world where I can't get enough, and my sleepover feelings gain identity and I am born as a new "me" in the company of the new day.
Is your heart pendulum?
Or is it my inner voice that I serenade?
I know those who saved their property from the fire, risking death.
Sometimes I give the money in my pocket to people I have never met, and even if it is very small, they never reflect on the charity I give, and they always say?
The one who gives less gives more than the one who gives more. Thousands of books and millions of sentences are hidden in the library of my mind, and has not God always provided my sustenance for the universe that I am faithful to his mercy?
My words are neither stagnant nor pompous nor false nor rebellious just like the child in me and I have always kept watch in the compass of my heart for a lifetime when I come across the morning prayer and here I turn my daily watch over to the light because every time I benefit from the darkness of the night it is the light and hope inside me that I pierce the darkness Of course, while my accompanying pen is fulfilling its duty happily…
Don't be fooled by what I call a duty, because I realized my humanity and my responsibilities in a lifetime so that I never went to school without doing my homework and I never gave up on loving people and hoping, and the pendulum in me always gave me morale because love became the gasoline of my heart and I always ignited it. I embraced gasoline and a growing love at work, I loved to love life most of all, a lifetime.
While living the lover of improvisation.
What happened with my muse is that even though I only met nine years, I was pure literature and poetry for a lifetime.
The years I lived in full bridle…
While every person that I run quickly in the corridors of school, sometimes in the corridors of life and integrate with love, is a blessing, for me, while I knew every person as myself, isn't it always because of what happened?
There are people who refuse to even say my name, that a smile is too much for them in my life.
The miraculous breeze of being a flower, and here is my slogan, the seasons and that crazy wind blowing inside me...
Since people live by their name…
In that case, I will never give up on smiling at life...
Even though I have two names, I will never slip away like a Star, and the Creator is the only one who approves and accepts me as much as I do not reject the sliding ground under my feet.
Indeed, why is it difficult for people to love and believe?
Hundreds of books I've read about you have given me so much
I share a loneliness with poetry and everything that goes from my strength to my strength is inside me. As a quote, I've stopped talking about my life stolen from my everyday and stolen dreams, I just write, I just love.
Wasn't that what I had before? After all, I got my strength from love and knowledge.
Sometimes it is not enough to know what I know: but not to me, but to the people I am talking about, and climates beyond my knowledge, as the philosopher emphasized:
All I know is that I know nothing.
Today's world where being simple and clear is also a luxury.
While the people who made the revolution in the past are consuming insanely today, the universe and the money they don't have in their pockets, and here the confluence of life is built into me.
I have dreams.
My memories and…
As the poet said;
Poetry is born of two things: imagination and memory.
Especially the people we love and believe in the memories, those who stole our dreams and while we are still realizing this...
Maybe this is a goal I wrote myself, that is, what I shared for a lifetime with my loved ones and my dearest friend, both in a memory, when I stole my dreams that I owned and built a new life for himself with stolen dreams...
My routine has always been to love.
The magnificent ability to love that living without malice has given me.
When I realized that love and being loved were never enough for people, the experiences I went through came as if the socks had been ripped off one after the other:
And that's when I met my pen that day because everyone I loved and will love had left me, and whoever I believed to be loved by me.
There had to be something new to give my love to, new people, it had to be, because I had not yet realized what was waiting for me in my association with the pen.
I am totally and completely in love with my pen, but there is more:
In this way, many people that my path crossed and the universe gave me the command to love again, finally my sealed heart was opened and I escaped from the corridor I was walking in.
I am warmed by the breeze of spirituality.
I embraced myself with the suggestions of my pen…
The publication of my life and my self, which is considered inadequate, whereas I was always strong before and after I became stronger, although I also lost power, but there was always someone who gave me the order to be so strong.
Was I an apple to ripen on my branch?
Or would I always bloom as a flower and fade?
I, on the other hand, was a magic hidden in the power of images: the quest that I pursued in the presence of words, which is important while of course I develop reconciliation with myself.
Derivative of life.
Perched on wasted years.
My sub-memory, in which I pile up all the enthusiasm and love and words, is such that hundreds of books that I have read in a lifetime offered me a lot, but I underestimated them and there are so many more waiting to be read...
So many books and many sentences and writings and poems waiting to be written were hidden in the library of my mind.
If I'm a romance.
I am a poet.
While I still haven't been able to explain to people what it means to be human.
I have never pronounced to be loved as much as I took refuge in the power of love because I was always sure for a lifetime that I was loved.
Here are the dusty shelves of my mind.
Here are my dreams.
Here are my memories…
Here's what awaits me...
What was my size and what would I dare?
Never to anything.
I woke up to the call of exhaustion today
My prayers have no color because as much as I embrace a utopia, I am deaf to the call of the world, and I know that the scale is as fake as the cruelty and evil and demon that I boycott. Because I only wish from my heart the beauties isolated from the human soul from my Lord...
A blessed victory awaits me, and without giving thanks to a servant of God.
Giraffe with cracked heels.
The spiteful hyena.
The treacherous-looking carrion crow…
I don't care about any of them, because today I woke up to the call of exhaustion, and from my dead yesterday, I pruned tomorrows and my hope grew and my enthusiasm grew as I grew.
My heart is beating fast. I thought I was going to die first.
However, it was the dead season, and I was fascinated by love, my Lord, and my country.
A shout was made in yesterday.
Touching an evil eye, and the tide's mind was the pain of the cruel and the blind light, after all, the blind spot of life, I was hidden at an altitude far away from blind minds...
As of this moment, I stripped of my identity and distinguished my tongue because I am angry because I am angry or not, I carry a pillar because I am in love, I am sad, I am oppressed, I am human, I am the cry of my country and the wind of reminiscence that accompanies the genealogy of love.
In the pure eyes of God.
The only answer I will give to those who say heartless is one word:
I am in love with my country to death, and my enthusiasm and pure poetry remained yesterday. Here I am the brave wind that stands in the forefront of my country and my ideals and principles...
The drooling demon and his disciple in the nooks.
Me is more than just a single syllable:
Love.
And the pride and enthusiasm of being human, and while my heart is shot during the whirling dervish, no one should doubt my courage because this heart voice is not considered a captivity, moreover, I am a prisoner of love from the first day...
As long as I know myself, I am in agreement with my Lord.
And at your feet where I lay my heart and my nature and my innocence and my enthusiasm like that ignorant shepherd...
What is the doomsday?
My love, when I couldn't fit into the sky and my sad inner voice was silenced and roared with all my being, not at the end of the sky, not at the end of the horizon, not at all, I heard the call of eternity and I came
I have neither words nor arrogance.
Neither my lie nor fear is hidden in me.
I will burn more than I will explain, I will burn with the love of the country.
If sadness is an inadequacy, let the tears never be deceived, my enemy, I will turn your head as much as I cry, since I will not recognize the tip of the barrel and your face, since I will not recognize your face, I set out on this path with enthusiasm and love for my country...
The path knows no way, the vindictive cruel.
The rebellious devil who gives to the oppressed.
My homeland, which is protected by angels, and who has lost its shire, take your hand, take your eyes off my country.
Love is a respect.
Man's stance is a dignity.
We are such a nation that its history is full of victories.
Our stance.
Our reputation.
We set out on this road once.
I'm sticking to a starboard.
My passion for a season.
I am beyond the seasons.
When I look at the sky where mercy is poured and my homeland watered with the blood of martyrs, I look at your tears and I will shed my whole self, nobility and wisdom, I will dig up your roots and do not look at my delicate identity, since my homeland in question I never know any of you and I will not look at your eyes...
I broke the rudder and here I rode myself on top of you.
I came armed with my sword and never underestimate me, never be fooled by the fact that I am gentle and fragile, since the word homeland is not in question, the breeze and the scattering shadows of yesterday do not matter to me either.
There is not the slightest left in me.
I'm full-blown.
Those who set their sights on their homeland have no place to go because I will bury them one by one in history and hell...
Heaven is my homeland.
Of course, our flag will fly with its glory forever as long as we give hand in hand, heart to heart, my villager, citizen, fellow traveler and zealous hearts...
I've never been harmed by people who were hurt
I have never drank poetry. I never knew that I would be a rebellion left over from the boats that were floating on the horizon of my heart and the ships that sank for a lifetime.
I fell in love once.
Once again…
However, these loves had no interlocutors and what I did not know when I had not written poetry yet is that the life I live is poetry in itself.
It was you who told me, moreover, my pain that I took advantage of the poems that I wrote in amazement when I met you late, and your share of pain from you.
If I was in my right mind, I wouldn't write poetry.
My mossy eyes.
tremble.
my syllables.
And my two names that contradict each other:
I reach the morning of the nights I wished to be a star as a smile.
Tired apparatus in the grace of my heart.
Prayers hidden in my traveler heart.
I did not know that I was in love and I always touched both people and all living and inanimate beings with love.
I said goodbye to the interlocutors of my heart and identity with what a nice gesture.
My words were rhythmic for a lifetime because with my analytical intelligence I was pierced inside and the crust of the earth was hidden - even in the deepest part of my diary.
I never knew and never told the three monkeys, but I shared the secret of one to the other, but I also shared my secret with people, and despite the many rumors I heard from a third or even plural identities, I was pushed around and each one of them was my best friend.
Was it a mistake or poems?
Selfishly, a salvation, a miracle, my life, which I dedicate to love, but with a difference from my fellow humans, because the love I had inside me had no interlocutor and never would have been.
I've always liked personality.
Of course, I have always pronounced one-person loves silently.
A spear that pierces my heart.
On the other hand, I built loves in the books I read…
The years I lived without people and books were my only friends.
My existence, which I broke the devil's leg and went out in public and was considered happy...
Turns out I was an absolute number.
A number with a principle is infinity hidden in both plus and minus digits.
My faultless being and mind, and as I always say:
My biggest capital was my brain...
I didn't give credit to the commonplace winds that I didn't make up sentences because I was the wind that hurled and defended me...
How many watermelons that I used to carry on an armchair when the ground was shaking and I spent night and day.
My eyes are bright.
My mind is bright.
My heart is pure...
I was so full of love that I kept in my heart tens, maybe hundreds of people with whom I was in constant contact, and I was still very young and how far away from poetry.
I like to talk to you because you don't hurt me.
I know you like to listen to me too, because I'm not hurting you either.
People who have been hurt will never be harmed because you and people who write poetry...
Yes, I started writing poetry very late, but it is also a fact that I have already lived my life like poetry, in such a way that no matter what environment I work in or when I go in and out, I always remember poetry, life and love is the only language of the poet, just as it does not fall from my tongue and my heart.
I'm living the season.
I'm living the season.
Yesterday I was spring, today is sadness.
I was April yesterday, but my happiness and happy poems were not good for people.
Should happiness always be sadness? Don't they also say?
Come on, laugh and live up to your name.
I also naively believe in people and days ago I was so happy that I reflected my happiness in my writings and I was highly appreciated, but again I realized too late; everything is a game...
Do people always play tricks, and is the climate of the heart always indiscreet?
My traveler's words and my transparent heart and my mother-of-pearl notebook cover, I'm chasing after dreams and nightmares hidden in derelict houses, maybe my feelings do not leave me alone and I am happy as if no one is on the mountain, but I am leaning on the mountains, of course I know that I was wrong many times; There is no mountain but my Lord.
I want to fully trust the other person without breaking my heart.
I'm on the radar of your life!
Sometimes the tired pages I scratch are as much a part of me as I am scribbling.
Melancholy and joy.
Many syllables that do not remain in me, because I love to play with syllables and spell life: I am truthful and honest and faithful to your Lord.
My best man is usually sadness.
All that is hidden in my balance, briefly…
It's my budget deficit, my feelings are my budget surplus, my hope ah, my endless hope.
While I have no doubt that I was sunk to the bottom of the place where I got close to anyone on Nose mountain, or that I was loved immensely for my apparent prestige.
Neither today nor just yesterday, and if I forget, the past is history repeating itself, and even though the people change, the rules and the things that come up are just as obvious.
The pen that I consulted with my heart is on the record.
Emotions that I can't contain sometimes knock me down and pass me by.
Do not think that my life is rosy.
Don't think that I'm struggling in the mud just because of your joy.
If I incline and smile a little towards happiness, alas.
The words are neither delusional nor painful, and my responsibilities are that I firstly respect myself, then approach life and people with respect and love, and turn the opposite corner.
Our temperament is familiar.
My altar is in place.
I have made an annotation with my pen about beauty and hope and love, which I tend to be more than a declaration of love.
I can love easily.
I am easily hated, but for no reason and never ending, yet I am quite sure that my feelings are mutual.
We are human: he drank raw milk and I boiled the milk while loving it and not compromising the truth.
The point where I am most mistaken is that I do not hide from the servant what God knows, and that backfires because I can't offer something clearly, what I say is never accepted, and people bring water from a thousand and one streams and I'm on top, and here's the bottleneck I'm in.
What is easy is debatable.
But the truth has always existed and will exist, even though God alone knows, and that's where I get my strength.
Believe me, it is not difficult to put all these sentences.
Should I also tell you under what conditions I wrote?
Never.
That's why I'm simple and clear, and I put my feelings on the table and put them on the paper one by one.
Whatever the seasons.
Whenever I feel happy, if I reflect on myself, there is no reason for my happiness, and now I know that happiness does not work for me.
Still, I'm happy in my own way, and I can't explain it after this time, and I really know what I'm going through.
I don't want to experience a period of pause anymore because I have given enough breaks in life, while the person who pauses me, I trust the other person to the end without breaking my heart...
Even though I've been wrong many times.
At least I am peaceful and comfortable with people because I am not mislead.
As for happiness, while I am building all my writings out of disappointments and my broken heart is still intact and whoever has broken their heart, there is of course my only responsibility, when there is nothing else that brings me peace as much as writing and living without breaking my heart…
While the words are flowing from my heart and the music and picture in the background are not heard or seen by you, of course, the only witness to my inner voice that matches my sincerity is the Creator...
Now I wake up more happy in the mornings
Loveless people, on the other hand, are supposedly loving and omnipotent and I can't help it:
I love my nothingness and I have always aspire to the office of nothingness.
I demand neither implication nor destruction.
Only while my cells are multiplying and decreasing, I am grateful to my destiny with the presentation of life, and since I am in love with my Lord...
What has changed in the world and in an age where even love is denied, with the smartphones we have, and this is what I know:
I managed to activate the unused part of my mind, just as we don't use most of our intelligence for a lifetime, don't ask me if we added my inner voice, which I got fallow, in addition to my enthusiasm and desire to write.
It does not happen without loving, and it never will be, and how could I reach the highest Divine Position?
I have always stood out for a lifetime, even while I was passionately devoted to my professions and even this stood out.
No matter what anyone says, we wake up more happy in the mornings. Because we know that the wonders of nature are waiting for us outside. And despite everything, it seems possible to be happy. The heart beats faster. Naughty children enjoying the spring are constantly pumping blood. I don't know, one feels like holding on to another life in such an atmosphere. Maybe I am giving too much meaning to this spring weather. But there is a fact that we cannot deny: It is as if a person was born again.
Whether in my childhood or in my student years, I never compromised: neither myself nor my ability to love, and my favorite is patting the head of orphans and how can I not take an example? And even as I said it, I shuddered: the greatest, most moral human being ever created.
While we are full of moral erosion, we are inside out…
Even when people are covered in mud with love…
Days and weeks follow each other in this life. Mankind is the most vivid witness of this chase. The cold winter days that make you shiver are almost gone. We are surrounded by flowers and insects all around us, the sun is more sincere in the mornings. All of these are examples of getting up again and getting ready for life, for those who understand and are aware.
While even innocence is humiliated and people are slandered out of the blue, of course, love does not suit every person and every heart.
Besides, who loves us unconditionally, apart from our Lord and our mothers, I have experienced the pain of losing your mother many times over.
I'm lying, but roses don't talk at all this time, mister.
Yes, you are lying and I am necessarily speaking with a smile:
Both while writing and loving, and for this I did not seek permission from anyone: neither yesterday nor today…
Do people always find it difficult to love, even to be loved?
The words I know are also the love and faith I have in the unknown and the familiar is just; The dimensionless and eternal existence of my Lord, and I cannot imagine a life without him, so I have already removed people who do not fear God from my life, although they are not necessarily my favourite.
Hoping to meet you one day, as long as your heart wishes...
It is only humanity and love that is in my head
What does being earth change?
Just as we came from the soil and we will go to the soil.
With my blossoming soul and the fast approaching spring, know how I too will run to the countryside and bloom. And yes, I have always postponed opening, don't look at my flower quality that I have for a lifetime...
For example, I am a nomadic song forgotten in the nooks.
I am also very familiar with history that repeats itself.
What am I forgetting?
Oh, that I was forgotten?
And my soul and hope hidden on the horizon.
Know that the draft of this letter is actually with my rabbit-toothed recklessness, I am chewing the pen, my favourite: I do not understand people with my pen-popping presence:
What, are we screwing the world?
One way or another, what difference does it make because I am an extraterrestrial creature anyway, and when I have no worldly worries as well as my eyes on the world's possessions.
But it's true that I came across it.
My eyes swelled up, my coffee…
Don't believe me even if I tell you: I neither like coffee nor believe in fortune telling, but, under hypothetical possibilities, I sometimes hear that the fault line in me is broken and I call directly.
I'm deciphering the cracks in me with the possibility of an earthquake that I need to report. That's why whoever is hidden on earth seems very cracked to me.
That blind man and his dog, who often pass by on the street, and know that; I wouldn't change either of them for anyone.
The peacocks make fun of the man.
The man also passes by without losing his composure, but it is also a fact; How many people does the man and the dog take out of their pockets?
I saw it at the market the other day and he poured all the money he had taken out of his pocket in front of the cashier, and he calculated the total amount of his purchases without waiting for the receipt to come out.
Neither too crazy nor too parental.
The human flood that we have eliminated, and also.
I almost cried.
My heart swelled.
Where we were?
While I write and live with my inexhaustible passion and stance, I stop by you from time to time and see the love of people...
I envy you: a, yes, and your identity as a lawyer was my biggest dream in high school, being a lawyer thank goodness I won another department, who knows how many people would go to the rope, who knows, I would be dismissed from the profession with my polite defense, especially in the age we live in, who is guilty, who is innocent, Is it easy to distinguish…
Those who consider life a virtue in terms of torment.
My nothingness and the life that I have internalized are of course different elements of being an ax.
My nomadic identity and my hilarious life:
According to some, come superficially according to others; I performed all my duties at the highest level.
Adjectives and flying and let them know that; I take each one out of my pocket with the eye of my heart, but let them not think that I am a loser when I live and pronounce it politely when it is a presentation of life.
What is the starting point of life?
There is also a destination point.
My inner identity that I travel with and how many identities are hidden within me:
As someone who actively refused to make money, I am aware that people do not respect me very much, and wouldn't they bury the features I have and put many adjectives in the corner of my name?
For me, only humanity and love, power of faith and knowledge are at the center of my head.
How I buried my features in history when I was deformed and humanity and knowledge hit rock bottom, but see that every time I stop writing, I go into flight and trance, I love it uncontrollably and involuntarily. Aren't we created with love?
Even love is belittled…
I also kicked out the shadows that accompanied my smiling face
Life when it's not a game!
I'm a noose in the blind knot of my loneliness.
You took my youth, which I sacrificed to blind bullets, in front of the bullets.
I have the perfect white collar title that matches my mood in the plazas where I take flight with the peace of backflip.
One step later, I returned to education again, and while taking crazy notes in the lecture halls, I kept my eyes on the hill without being arrogant.
Rare passers-by.
The ones who let me down.
I caress my orphanhood.
You are the interpreter of my voiceless words.
Colorful flowers on my spring branches
Autumn fell all around me,
You filled smiles from my heart to my cheeks.
Of course, while my embroidery and my body were matched, I decided that my appointment was not made this time, and that being a foreign language teacher in the private sector offers freedom, not hardship, and I greet my colleagues with the title of stupidity hidden in the nature of my refusal to earn money, and I fly in the sky with the love and respect of my students. .
my house?
Is it my hopper?
Or is it my solitary cell?
What's wrong sir?
The scanning device, while hidden behind a pair of eyes, where, of course, I set aside the dreams that I have done with my pen and that I will reach the right path before I die, and run to my Lord in real terms and pass it alone with my heart eye.
Embroidery day.
Dancing sadness.
The life I deserve.
Writing is a migration.
If it's a presentation, it's a serialization of all these emotions.
A time interval is between my yesterday and my day. This gift you left in my heart, the warmth you left in my palms, my love for you, my passion, my obligation, and this passion you left on my lips will be my happiness and companion for a lifetime.
My heart overflowing between the lines and I did not compromise my humanity without compromising my compass and I gave the right to my imagination on the eve of making my dreams come true.
No matter what the subject is, first of all, my brain and my heart, my whole being, and my self-sacrifice longing for a world that does not allow transition to love, and of course I can easily love all living things because of the Creator.
While it is a reflection of this extraordinary and peaceful togetherness that I finally faced with myself and created for myself with my pen by throwing out the shadows accompanying my smiling face, all that I wrote is not all of these, you know, and I am just at the beginning of the road and it's the time when I opened my wings with my child's heart and endless longing and dream. What I wrote when I was also a reflection of an outside world.
Even if I write thousands of poems, I am still the child of the first day
The mild season hidden inside me and a stylish smile hidden outside me.
While my destiny and my fortune and my chest and my chest and what I don't think are my slogan as much as I pronounce it, my feelings and your belief in the power of the Divine Wind blowing is the most significant.
The sky is roaring. The heart is snoring.
If it is love, I am the spelling mistake of love, because I am a poet, because I am a poet, because I am familiar because I am an obvious indomitable breeze, and I am also a hidden Star in the world, where I present my pen that I love, bestowed by the Lord.
My resilience and unquenchability and my smile because I am a poet and poetry.
I just wanted to dream.
It was night. It was cold from the morning, all the memories of memories left, a cry in the middle of the endless days, it was after the night that couldn't be a morning by itself, its low voice in the early morning, actually the crumbs of ageless memories hidden in the piggy bank of loneliness, whereas the peculiar tremors of the past were sad in the early morning, whereas loneliness was in the humming gaze by the sea, now heaps are lined up with the residue of the past, whereas loneliness is higher and heavier than all, only ice-cold toes, orphaned dreams left behind years, whereas the frost in the early morning was the frost that crushed and dried their throats, here is the weight of loneliness on my back, the sweat flowing under my deprived shoulders again. without you.
I just wanted to dream.
My poem and my poems and my singing heart.
My pain. I guess. My chest. I am loved. I opened. I'm faded. I shine. I'm out.
The images and poems settled in my heart's loom and the people I fell in love with for a lifetime when I defeated them, and the bitterness hidden in my sinew, the temperament buried in my heart, and my poems that I knit from the senses, to which I add a raging wind.
My day is my principle and my compass and my love, where I am exposed to a breeze that starts from the night and here is the Day of Poetry.
Should I forget first or is this a mistake? While it was hidden before me, I fought in different lanes and was the last front I opened in my heart, I was filled with love in the breeze of poems, I emptied with sadness and I always loved.
What is it that I have written thousands of poems because I am still the same enthusiastic girl as on the first day: on the way to school, in the corridors of the banks where I worked, when I met my pen and when I was a pure and pure love, of course, my life is poetry, without getting lost in the spiral of poems. My veil is necessarily images.
Finally, when my Lord has given me my pen and my heart, how can I not write, how can I not love, how can I live without love?
The universe is loving, just as poems are the flames of my soul, every speck of my heart and its broken pieces, and at work, I pour poems out of my pocket and when I am condemned, I always become a poem and open it in hearts, and I believe that I am loved as much as I love because I am a poet because I am a poet because I am human.
That corridor is surrounded by darkness and that image that turns into poetry when I touch it, and the joyful poems hidden in my heart and I came across my pen and poems on a day when I was lost in my life, and that day I have been writing poems, essays and stories for ten years without interruption.
Poetry is my rank and my epaulette and my wind and my soul and my heart and…
While poetry is also equivalent to smiling and breathing in the sight and presence of my Lord, who declares my love and power of faith, which Divine Love grows and enlarges, and my existence and immunity, which is spread and wrapped in poems.
If it is a pronunciation, a poem or a vigilance and a hadith hidden in the depths of my soul and a poem in which I am enthused with love, how can I be a poem, how can I not write a poem, how can I not love the universe, since I am in pursuit of eternity, how can I not adopt a verse in which love resides, since I am the motto And the universe is made of poems...
I write as I burn and I burn as I write
I have words, old man.
I have everything old:
Love and respect and respect and peace and truth.
My words.
Did I pay the price? Shouldn't I love then?
The guidance that I climb as much as I love.
According to some, I find peace as much as I love, misery.
Virtue is what I know, which is added to torture.
An order in which love and hope and sweat are not respected.
Neither the victim, nor the opposition, nor the victor.
My smile that I live in homage to love and that I still haven't faded and stolen from love, and my innocence that I've already kept hidden.
That I neither flaunted nor alienated myself with stolen dreams.
My heart has never slowed down, nor has it ever froze. I will not succumb to this life with icy consciences and icy looks, even though I seem to have already been defeated by this life.
I have colors, vintage.
I have love, my love: the most peculiar.
I have wishes and dreams:
As long as you don't trample love and dreams underfoot.
It is true that I did not get anywhere, but I started by touching myself.
Moreover, I squandered love because I loved easily who is near me, who is far, who is not.
What a genius and crazy.
It's just my soul that gives and I didn't expect anything in return from people.
Love is the unreachable.
Is love accompanied by love?
Or is love refuted as well?
The old man has arrived: I have love and hope and my words.
Your arrogant and unclean hearts are taken, and plenty of smiles and hope are offered in return.
Those who reside in the universe.
Lifetimes divided into phases.
The haze is over.
Winter is gone.
While the human race is on the verge of fading and many lands are bleeding and innocent people and children are dying...
Give me your old souls and dispose of whatever emotion is hidden in the minus house.
I have words and a big heart.
The one that grows as you love, but breaks even more when you love.
Broken souls hurt me.
Are my eyes beyond glass more than soul or soul?
I have a world that grows as I love: I loved my Lord most of all, living and even inanimate beings, who are not valued today, but valued and valued.
Ah, if only I was selfish then how easy would it be to love myself and happiness.
I drink when it hurts.
Hurt people.
But there is no need for any of them, because I am alive and a person has never fed on unhappiness and pain for a lifetime and I knew everyone as myself, I shed my tears and my heart for a lifetime on a golden platter to all my friends.
An old friend is not an enemy.
What about new friends?
It is neither yesterday nor you nor anyone else that I imitate.
A lifetime while making love as much as I love to death and my dreams one by one...
My fondness for knowledge and my loved ones.
What I expected from everyone I saw in my family and what a disappointment.
The old man came:
Give me your old ones:
Your old tiredness, your old memories, and I will give you brand new smiles and words and lay poems at your feet.
My promise is a promise.
Both embers are hidden in my essence.
I write as I burn and I burn as I write because love is my meaning.
Since I have a subject, I also miss.
My story is not ordinary, what I killed is my yesterday and my feelings are hidden in the pan.
I cover my soul with words.
I cherish my words.
The old man came and I'm giving out love in a big bag:
Call it hope, call it poetry or call it a lie.
My candle is still burning because I burn it not until nightfall and since the only thing I pray for is my Lord...
The old has come and I protest everything new.
I searched for a garden of paradise in my life adventure
My fascination is on the lapel of my pen like a badge that attaches to reality and sometimes dreams.
Uncapped words are not in my area of interest. In fact, even though I accept every word, I am defeated by the possibility of being satirical, sometimes expatriate, sometimes pointing out the words and missing images, one by one, for a lifetime.
No, no, that can't be me.
Tongue sore or heartache?
I can never be you, or do I smoke like you guys or just like a child?
am i mischievous?
Is he cheating?
Or is it a freak of the devil who carries all this silence in his heart in the name of sound?
Its memorandum is the universe and its love is the vastness.
Diphtheria.
Maybe the bird landed.
Bird feathers or feathers on my words?
Since I took life to the stinger, the threshold in my heart that I could not tie to a solid stake.
Or is a donkey loaded with words that go away?
Maybe it's the remnant of humanity and the feelings that I took advantage of.
The day I grew up in my eyes.
It's the syllable that I split day by day.
I put the day in the bag, and at night I took a stroll on her transparent skin.
Maybe it was a gimmick.
Maybe it was the only one in its lane, my heart voice, moreover, I was embezzled by the world, which neither day nor yesterday had donated almost the whole of my life.
If it's love, my kind and obvious promise.
The season is dry and expired in winter.
The cold and rain and snow that I wintered in and here was the April sun rushing, now the migratory birds, now the raging wind that did not cease to take vengeance.
Here is the one where I depicted the day from the night, and here is what I wrote about tomorrow hours ago. who was i
Was it my pen or my command?
While I was shouting orders to a battalion full of words hidden inside me with the air of a commander, after all, our subject, which I half won my battle with my soul and that I defended my will until my last breath, is only literature and life.
He is satisfied with my troubles from yesterday.
Maybe the scale-filled notes and my fingers making love to the ivory keys of my old-time upright piano and the notes are now replaced by words and keys are replaced by words and here are my flags that I finally unfurled.
Just as I loved without making a sound out of courtesy, the values and teachings hidden in me upon request, of course, I once set my head on the path called life.
My past and my memory.
of my tomorrows.
I faced and identified with my destiny.
While I was busy with writing, while I was busy with writing who grew up when I was in trouble, certainly shrugged off the wicked shadows.
My climate is spring, I'm never burdened with a dilemma.
My principle and my ideal and my note.
My Divine Confidence.
Who cares if my life is spent in seclusion?
Nor to fall into a huge void.
While attached to the radar of love, my soul and self are hidden in my heart, with that rhythm, I escaped from the shadows rearing on the earth and made a contract with my Lord in the atlas of emotions.
I was a calendar, wasn't I?
Or is it the preface or the story of a moody and sweet poem, and here is my bright and legitimate defense that I healed from derelict syllables, of course, every time I mess with the pen, the reader is also involved and I am bouncing like a pawn or a checker stone from one branch to another.
Besides, I'm not lying.
While what I did about my day yesterday is the guarantee of what I will do, my only mistake is that I did not continue.
When I say my student identity, when I say playing in academics, and when I was a teacher, I was not aware that I was actually looking for a garden of paradise in my banking adventure, and of course, when I saw a comfortable bank chair as equal to heaven and rewarded my colleagues as an angel, of course, when the pumpkin exploded on my head.
My gaze was vacant and you were my biggest iMy gaze was vacant and you were my biggest illusion
The experience turned into an unmatched freak.
Existence has been replaced by a completely different world.
Memories turned into a cloud of dust,
Life was now in the colony of another star.
We were wandering around with half-ghost and half-living beings.
Just as in the world; like being dead while living and some still living after death. Like the times when we couldn't bury it even though it disappeared or has no value. We had made a horizontal transition to the universe where the spirits of the old empires were hidden. We were traveling in the shadow of known but known facts, hidden by other old but new faces. It was all in a goddamn metallic time, as if the voices were shrill, nothing more than a squeak, there was no such thing as a beautiful sound.
The music had stopped.
We could communicate or communicate with our brain hums.
The future of anxious days is clear from nightmarish nights.
Anxiety; It is the uncertainty and devaluation of the hours you live.
It was a livable life, but not tolerable. It was irritating, muffled, rude, and gloomy. If only we could manage to disappear before everything was over, not be so immortal, and ensure continuity.
If we could truly appreciate our world, including our very existence, we wouldn't go crazy. If we hadn't been chasing after meaningless ghosts and not beautiful dreams, before it was all over.
On nights when we are related to the cold of death, the birds on the quilt are chirping uncanny. The icy songs that I warmed and sang were numbing the tip of my tongue. The coldness of the marble skin felt like death. I didn't know where to carry my cold hands and words. It would not be possible to carry it with these hands, as if it had lost the ability to hold on.
I had dreams far from death, on nights I slept in agony. There were things that hurt more when it got hot, like remembering, like hoping. Dreaming of the sun so much did not bring it. To wish to forget something every day was to remember it every day. The poet came out of the poem, the subject lost its meaning in its existence. The remaining predicate didn't pack anything in, and the actions didn't do much either.
My gaze was vacant, you were my biggest illusion. Since I did not dare to explain this, I wasted words in disbelief. Every word you chase to believe is a trap for your soul.
Being deceived is getting yourself caught in the traps you set deliberately. When you see and read that poem you knew by heart years ago, the change you feel, what has happened at work, those who have aged, those who have changed, the passing time turns outward and stops.
Everyone is disappearing, disappearing. It was so quiet that everything ended, I couldn't do anything, I couldn't say anything. But I fell apart, stopped and crumbled where I left off. If we get away from the noise, our inner voice will drown us. Some mornings seem so unnecessary. Everything you say, let's do it for a while, doesn't come back to you with the same feelings when you postpone it. You're wasting.
There is no right time, just what needs to be lived is happening. That book that you postponed because you do not trust the present tense and the meanings you will find by saying that I will read this book in the future, will not make you feel what you feel now when you believe that the time has come.
You won't be able to feel anything with the same feelings.
Just like when I'm writing these sentences right now, I'm actually going through much better ones, but they disappeared until I put them here.
Since the day I met poems, I've been hiding your words
With the words of love, when my soul was poetry, I set out on the road.
My love, my enmity with love, the darkness, and yet my sadness hidden in the dark, my Lord, my tears that I shed as poetry by jumping out of my tongue stuck in a syllable by nature.
The sky's overalls of blue.
Your emotions painted black.
In the sometimes thick silence and dominance of the divine being, the fallen leaves of the Divine Wind line up.
In his eyes, it's like the seasons of the universe that are loaded with many prophecies.
The dream keepers prevailed and the truth was swept away, after all, the reason was hope and dream of most of the oppressed: the desire hidden in a passionate sigh and the only loving words accepted by God, while the poet was hastily writing and loving insistently, he was like butterflies flying on his wounded wings, giving thanks even to the pain that dominated that dead end. He does not lose hope of being loved, does not compromise on helpless love, and is patient even for scarce happiness.
The remnant of time gone.
After tomorrow, it's time for earrings.
It is like the sadness that haunts the heart of that bird that does not bend and keeps its head upright even in every dream that is swaddled, while the body of yesterday and the lost is hidden in the horizon of the season, of course, the heart of the bird warms in the breath of the sun in a syllable.
In every poem written while every stroke of beauty and hope is the victory of the poem in which it succumbed to the guilty, of course, what the poet said is confirmed:
While the lines that the poet curled up with, thanks to the enthusiasm and love that he could never get over, without worrying about the flying images and beauties, accompanied every line that sobbed through the veil of the night.
The manifestation of images…
Is it a melancholic look, the season of love, and here is the lyrics of hidden love and Divine Love.
A seasonal vigilance and birds hidden in the sky's trench…
The heart fluttering like a bird and the directive of the words, of course, a dialectical peace, the heart of poetry, the words are temperate, and the love is trembling and cries…
The sky where I was stationed and the clouds I shook hands with and how hope and how my speech was faltering before.
The tail of a huge oratory poem and the mercy that ends the curse.
Bird's eye view is a pain, and I am a wind in the majesty of the world, your smiles and sometimes my frowning words.
You dear poet!
I am at the bottom of the climate and above the flower pot. My life is not painful, poems since the day I met you and I've been hiding your words and here is my rekindled love. so let me tell you from the beginning, it turns out that I was hidden in the nature of the love that I put my head into in my journey with poetry, it turns out that a lifetime and images, my hat, and words are the smile hidden in my tears as much as I renounced love, of course, this path that I put my head into with my name and I think, for the sake of poetry...
Every time you look at the road, of course, it is the Day of Poetry, the impulsive wind of the journey inside me.
My edict is reserved in my power of faith as much as I am my heart and my sadness and my heart and my love and love.
Good Lord, you are the nation of the greats.
My only Lord, you are the one who bestowed on me my heart, my eyes and my pen.
I am hidden in my pen, and while my pen is the plectrum of love, the chip of the heart and the nature and sadness and human and my feelings that I inspire, of course I am a soldier, I am after poems and poetry with a cute smile on my face.
I'm angry at my pen, my inner voice is still on silent waiting
The days are nights, the nights are sadness.
On my journey, the train that I caught at the last moment in the back car, and once I was its locomotive, my life, my pride and my teachings were defeated.
I had a father who had such beautiful hazel eyes.
I was the only one, he wouldn't be in any trouble.
He was a simple man, he didn't get up from his seat much.
There were too many of us, she wouldn't talk to me.
Then he dived into a white tale.
I experienced my greatest pain that day.
Crying sounded like a lullaby to my heart.
The child in me was calming down as I cried.
I like to cry that day.
I'm crying as I write this, but I promised.
But I still remembered him.
Look, now I am very young, we are traveling with my father, a few people on the road ask my father if he is a grandchild and then they pat my head and it is in my power, I still remember.
While I don't know where I will stand on the route called life school now that I have graduated from the front door of schools in a lifetime that I can't make up for.
Do you suffer from nationality?
Is it because I'm a satellite?
Maybe I am the cursor of the sky, and here are the darkening clouds, while I can make the sky bright even in blackout nights.
His manifesto is mingled with all the words and the pen is still silent.
Am I really the disposition of your words?
The pen that I chased and broke the head of.
If the sky is the powerhouse, the clouds are me, the wind itself is the wind and I am still my sluggish pen.
These are the days when I hit a wall.
The wind that came in through the chimney that I fired from the door I pulled from the ear, of course, I am angry at the lamentable stance of my pen, my inner voice is still silently waiting.
Dominant and predatory sound of external voice.
I live when injustice is at its height.
Deprivation is at an extreme level, the tension of my being is at its peak and my clustered emotions are starting to move a little, if only a little.
I couldn't tell.
I fell on top of the hill where I got up on a handstand.
The pen still refuses me.
Is it the signal that I'm loyal or silent, your inner voice?
The dominant one is the wind and the sadness, while I always sing like a bird in windy and sad weather.
Eventually, the sky erupts, thunder one after the other, and it is raining softly, while the snowflakes say, the pen begins to pour out one by one, while I am crying loudly with the stones on her skirt, we find a middle way and start drawing together with my pen from the end of loneliness on the threshold of the snow.
If it's sideways, it's people.
Side-wheel smiles.
The labels are at a high and the wind that whips my pain The Creator is on hold.
It is the Creator that ends the gloomy weather.
My life has never been this hot.
The pen is still and sad.
The heavens exploded at last.
Harvest season.
I am not freed.
Free couplets and my underrated heart and self.
Inspiration or understanding?
Humanity and innocence if it is marked with a pain and exile that I cannot destroy beyond what I have performed…
I dedicate free smiles to that huge wound hidden inside me
My dreams are one-man wit.
I am on the sill, hidden perhaps in the womb of the universe, declaring my pre-death immunity.
I am the miserable god of my chronic fatigue and hypocritical smiles, my heart jumps and I dedicate free smiles to that gigantic wound hidden inside me.
My words at your command.
However, my pen has not written for several days.
Of course, my witty heart and platoons are monopolized by melancholy: how it is obvious that I am in love, but the bird cages hidden in the misty chest of my heart and my affliction, the face turned only to my Lord.
A handful of sadness that I squandered.
Seagulls peck my soul.
Hope is what I'm left with.
The window where I bounced and drooped in the climates when I was once a cheerful child in smoking mourning, and my pen screams madly.
It doesn't line up, and no one ever will.
What is significant is that everyone's self-confident stance, but how many lies they are talking about on one leg, with the demon's directive.
I'm alone.
How savvy.
I am a star.
I am on your gilded path, my transcendent and spiritual joys and my blessed words I pray only the Creator.
I love unbiased.
That I poured cologne on my grieving old eyes.
Living and growing and living…
My loneliness is born and grown from a spark.
On the other hand, I should never have written that my life has been hurting since the first day.
The shroud I knit from my pain.
While the pan I was sitting on caused a separate problem, my words on the other pan, of course, my feelings and the fact that I died many times.
A humor.
And hijab.
Is it the meal of the day?
What a gamble.
What I oppose is cruel and evil.
My angels are hurt too.
My patched existence, my scarred senses.
I am crushed under my feet, but I am still standing and my head is upright.
The dilemma of blatant lies is the witness of tomorrows and the Creator.
My feverish wait.
The night is ending, I focus on the day, then the sun comes up and my senses become dull this time, I am waiting for the clouds so that I can save the white from their dirty hands Your innocence and screams are not the only person I am hurt by, and here I am delivering the lamb to the wolf and laying my soul on the blank white page.
My transparent heart.
In the millennium, a rambunctious and accented voice stifled feelings, my words, limp feet of my senses, and a shabby shadow chasing me.
It's been a quiet few times in the pen.
I'm waiting for the night
I turn the day
I'm chipping the pen.
I close my eyes but I can't fall into the depths while falling asleep...
Submissive shadows hypocritical satires.
Bittersweet pain.
Old smiles and forgotten.
The thorny roads and the reverse wind.
My reverse is also wrong, I never compromise.
With my silence, the only rifle I hold to my head is the barrel of the gun and tears are gushing out from white ashes on my temple and I am in the embers of yesterday and coal eyes smiles in love and in doubt.
If it is to start again, the same story, and that wheel that turns inside me, I am proud of my pain in the diary of grinding, and the last drops of my mocked self.
Words hidden in the background of a passing day accompanying a dead day. Of course, each of them froze in the cold, I rub them with my hands, while the pen is as silent as a cat that spilled milk, I pour boiling water over your head and your pen doesn't care.
@trixdawson
