I messed with the old ones tonight. I thought of all the experiences, all the good times past. I wandered through the photos, I don't know where we are and how well we are. My head is very full. The pandemic makes people question themselves. Maybe they cause big disappointments or leave their dreams unfinished. I don't know why but I'm so tired.
I don't know what
I pass by the edge of my dreams with you,
An indescribable deficiency inside me,
I just can't manage to live.
What was it like to forget
I'm on top of my head, a sadness on my face,
If they asked, what kind of story is this like this?
If I only knew where to start,
I tell myself sometimes
I find a result that ends without you.
Life is long or short
Time doesn't pass but I get old every day without you
I'm passing through happy people
I am writing to you, to me, to us,
this pain does not remain for anyone, a few glasses.
I think I'll forget, your deeper pain.
I'm left behind while you look at the life of this story.
Poetry has little inspiration. it happens by dealing with studying poetry. they think. The poet sits in front of nature, collects his inspirations and writes his poem by taking the pen in his hand. Not at all. he will close in the room and sweat, think, get tired, struggle. a couplet occurs by shedding a hundred sweat. I bring the sights to my room and meander there. I sweat and write my poem between the four walls.
I think a lot before I write poetry. Just like an engineer, just like an architect. When a building is about to start, how the architect first thinks, draws the plan, then starts the building. just like me.
Before I write a work, I prepare the whole prize. How will I enter my work, what result will I arrive. I imagine all these things. Then I start writing. I get the result I want.
While Mayakovsky, which we can say that he lived in the same period, says that poetry is a production, it is not far from mehmed akif. What the believer and the materialist of the period say about poetry and how poetry is close to each other.
Man fits everything but he cannot fit a love in his heart properly. We are a lost story now, I broke up, I lost my way, I cannot open my problems to anyone, people prefer to give advice instead of listening to trouble, I prefer to be silent now.
I don't have my age, I need some advice. Someone understand me, somebody listen to me, that's all my goal. I am disappearing, watching those closest to me transform into distant people one by one. A community of people who don't understand me.
I have become a very selfish person, but I have no use for a gram of myself. I'm not full, but it's like I'm playing for overtime. This dream, which has not been lived so much, is more than you call the name of the plan. I'm still missing, I haven't forgotten the location of my wound. You are always by my side, every moment I live, every meal I eat, every song I listen to does not remind me of you. I haven't forgotten anyway, it would be useful if I ever forget you, I probably can't.
