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.