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?