Keep your dreams alive and wash the falling syllables one by one in the shower of the downpour.
From your eyes.
From your mouth to your nose
You know, whatever emotion is overflowing from the images that have sailed in your mind.
I don't like it loud anymore, but I'm counting one by one.
First, I line up from left to right whoever is there, and I count them out of respect without fail.
It's an idle dream, maybe it's a metaphorical love that I just fell into. I will cast my heart for a lifetime and I will keep it pure in my cell from which I escaped, for the sake of the days to come.
My patience is overflowing.
The age when your love is gone.
I was a regular when I was mourning on a hill where age also rains.
Of course, it is obvious that I still cannot return to my factory settings after the upside-down falls, so I have a lot of time to fine-tune.
You may be a romance, perhaps the silken skin of sadness and a dignified smile.
Of course, I call out to you, my love, of the star of love, whose skirts ignited after the burns
You are hidden in the glasses that the clans clink.
My inexhaustible supplication in the hijab of love.
If a redif is after me.
If it is a passive season, stones are pouring from its skirts.
An ascetic composition, perhaps, the prosperity of the poems.
Dear Love.
Oh, my bad luck.
Affectionate Love.
Ah, like my dreams that were discarded in the skin of the night as my fork black was burned.
I fell on the road in snow and fell into this love at the time of a poem.
It was the tempting pen that I only drew a pen in my eyes before and then I became blind and froze in the blind spot of love.
I am also a star, and while love does not leave its bottom, now I remember the sun and hug myself in the mourning of the night, I enjoy myself and my sadness, most of all, I take care of the flowers that are swaying in the cantor's garden and bloom one after the other.
Superstitions are hidden in my inner pocket.
The longing of love, the brutality of loneliness, the poison of words is hidden even deeper, and before I go to sleep, I pour a ladle of words into my glass, add a handful of punctuation marks to it, and set the clock to infinity, I set off on the road when it was a longing of the night, when it was dark and love was the jester's wife.
I am emulated myself.
My soul that I killed.
Thousands of emotions that I assimilate.
I open my arms to you with forethought and self-efficiency and with my frayed emotions, and then you slip out of my hands.
My words are mature.
It is the explorer of loneliness, the sea of images in me.
He is sullen, sometimes the aggression of the blank page to me, and at work, waiting to be filled, how many hearts actually correspond with those who overflowed my heart.
Only I hear and see.
It's just me resting.
Just when my bang wire was pressed, I split in half in the middle and went up into the sky next to you.
Where am I, Love.
Nor in the sky.
From time to time, my heart is broken:
Come time.
While under suspicion and firing.
Go time.
While it was a dominant emotion, the prophecies of love when it was the product of anger and cantor, and here are the towels and covers that escaped from what I thought, after all, everyone agrees that I will throw a towel, but I have just started.
Stay Peaceful - Poetry
Loving people is a service to them.
If an artist believes, he paints the whole world with his tiny brush.
If the strong crushed the weak, we ants and elephants would also crush us.
The greater the power of man, the greater the danger!
My age is my ripe fruit
If you feed the fluids flowing into your brain, you will find that the light of your brain is brighter.
Money ate its creator too!
Come on up and catch the scents of flowers.
Get rid of restlessness now.
I even like your sin my love
Do colors really have a race?
The words are pure and full of love.
Even if the self is not a concern, sometimes it is sadness, my notables, sometimes I mourn, sometimes I know about spring, sometimes in the winter garden, sometimes in the summer corner, sometimes in the summer corner, sometimes bare-footed men and women rooster, while I peck at the hens in my coop like a yellow chick, pecking at the words at work.
I can't fly yet.
I can't run yet.
I'm not born yet.
Within hours, I will open my eyes and get out of the fetal position, open a soda to myself in honor of a new age, and gift myself stories and poems hidden in air bubbles.
Oh, Love.
Neither you ask nor I will tell.
I'm on my own in this sense, what you say is empty.
I opened my arms, waiting for whatever emotion escaped from your idle heart, and I am the watchman of a lost group with the sentences I have formed.
Since today is my birthday, happy birthday.
If you are love, ask me about these lines that I wrote to you in a hurry. day gift.
I'm not lying, love actually I don't exist and the whole world knows that you don't exist either.
See you in my next age, just wait for me, Love!
I love to attain peace in my life