You are a dream iris and an anomaly hidden in the echo of silence.
I want to shout at your face, but time doesn't give a damn. This time, suspicions are burning in my skirts and I'm knitting from dreams I wish happiness and endless peace When I say from the Creator, it feels like a stocking ripped, and the rest, of course, how cold my bare feet are.
You're out of my sight.
An accusation hidden in my eyes.
Of course, my death warrant, which I love to live out of sight, is approved.
I am busy with my shadow, and sometimes I am rehearsing for tomorrow, my feelings that I measure with the square of the heart, of course, we are already contracting with the sky star and it winks at me, mostly that star cluster hidden in my eye springs and I still can't figure out what I came across.
How late I was to make a radical decision.
I am waiting for the poem that makes an appointment, under the tree, of course, in the middle of the city, I jump like a sycophant plant from one garden to another and poetry does not come, of course, I bid farewell to my muse, maybe the fleas are flying at the bottom of the quilt and finally the quilt goes away.
There are so many emotions that confluence and I come and go on the horizon line, most of all there are roads that I can't return to, I go and jump into a dream bay and catch articles with the images I put on the end of my fishing line, I load the image at the bottom to my heart, then I transfer it from my heart to the paper, I almost transfer your feelings, wishing to see the light of day, but It entered my blood once during the night.
I am also a senior wind, and I curse the enveloped clouds, at least I should not reflect the ragged journey inside me, I should knit cumulative sentences from my words that have entered the sky and the ground.
Sadness is popular.
Of course, the knob of the scale escaped once, of course, I love and live without bending and twisting, and sometimes I make people uproot, most of all, when my soul is up, I put my soul on hold in a fountain, and I only come to life with subtitles under the dominance of external voice.
The authentic atmosphere in my soul is almost like a deep circle, the islands lined up in the sea of emotion are hidden inside me, and each one of them shimmers like a crystal chandelier.
There are a lot of things that I cover up, maybe a member of a pattern, my feelings and they escape without revealing, each one of them is like a limb hidden at a high altitude, if your life is bliss, I make an absolute blunder and I pass it off, I plug it back in again.
It is obvious that a rhythmic beat of the heart pumps blood, not blood, in fact, emotions are discarded with letters hidden in the alphabet inside and outside of me, as if my inner voice sometimes swells like a sublime event, my feelings do not fall from my tongue, and I yearn for a peace that the Lord will support, and my soul is purified with the mercy that I was caught in an endless torrent of distress.
What is the content of the sky, of course, a wind that I can't decipher, and what can be the publication of mother nature's flaxen hair, the particles spilled from the debris left behind, and I tear off your pen, and I grow and enlarge my loneliness.
Read me silently without shedding a tear,
Nineties, my heart is an uncultivated land
Neither axis, it seems to end, moreover, it is not the stubble season.
I want a rose garden in my heart,
Yellow, white, red roses.
A paragraph boarder, with disconnected sections
I am advancing without signs of a plane.
At that time, I did not have any intellectual lace aspirations,
I only have minor and abnormal exclusions.
I live daily between my lecture notes,
I'm getting by with rolled tobacco,
Beautiful city, I love the rain and the sea.
I am the rain and the sea,
It's like everything is ok
Something is missing.
That summer vacation was so long
I knew something was going to happen
You will come.
There is nothing hidden in the earth while dreams and hope are the disposition of the sky, so that your pen may sometimes come up with a rebellious tone in your eyes enamored with the sky.
The words are infuriating and I compile them all and build a paradise.
It tastes like rusks.
Sometimes your loneliness keeps you sobbing.
‘Look, what is hanging in the air? Just lift your head up and look.'
That thin line between looking and seeing is just like the gratitude that grows out of a tiny ache between normality and abnormality.
Whatever life contains that I have been defeated.
The love of getting out of a petite love and making it stand on the road is sometimes hidden in its core: both arrogance, stampede, and a thin rain begins when I wash my face with ink spilled from a broken pen, and finally I become a hundred eyes.
It's more than I've maintained.
I hang myself from the gallows and the bottleneck and open my words and the arms of the pen to the vastness with my portable execution table and pen.
It is an undeniable fact that I have surrendered to a pitch-black darkness.
That confluence of the night hidden in its veil, moreover, that no one can notice, and here I am knitting the skewer with its thin end, I am knitting the stars again and in the moonlight I am covered, I am chanting in the moonlight only I am hanging clouds from the words that only my Lord has grown and emerging, I am waiting for a poem that will come a little later on the roof of my heart, maybe in a corner of the night .
Sadness.
One routine is the urge to write.
A request is the charred heart of the pen.
I write whether it is reciprocated or not, and before the dawn breaks, I struggle with the morning of my pen, in fact, with my sleepy eyes from the night, I showcase what I write every day and when my defected soul is armed with a cannon rifle, I am at the forefront in this field battle, of course, the nothingness of the poems, of course, my life and words in the meeting the paw sofa stands whenever I go to meet them.
Wagons come and go on the train tracks of the sky, and my inner voice consults with the identity of the locomotive, with each wagon, a different world is hidden inside each of them, and here I am leaving this world and finally on the road, it's only a matter of time before the next night stays true to the appointment given by the pen. On behalf of which I renounced sleep.
You were like a white swan that had just descended into deep waters.
I was starting to taste something I didn't know the name of,
I seemed to be in rebellion mixed with prayer.
With each passing day, in a deepening inconsistency,
I was becoming addicted to you.
God made you for me to love,
But I shouldn't be in your world
This is complete bullshit.
It's a big void.
I'm spinning inside myself
Love is breaking the mainspring,
I have no mind, I have a heart.
Something is happening to me, like an antidepressant.
Am I getting the first inspiration from your eyes,
Then,
I don't know what's next.
I wrote a lot
I guess.
