I fell like heaven to your rose garden that I should love the most

The divisions of dreams, the separating of the facts, the geography of the heart that falls into a dilemma rather than a climate, and the seasons that I mourn. If you hate the dirty meter, I bounce in the daisy fields one by one.

With the privilege of being a flower.

The majestic dome of a chromatic guide.

Poems for a drink inside of me, which I sometimes resent, but mostly to myself because I love the guest feelings as much as I can't enough, finally I extend my hand to myself and shake hands with myself.

Sadness is a desolation.

If my addiction is to the universe, see that my knees do not tremble away from the blessings of the world.

The feelings that washed up on the shores of my love and I, my love is obvious.

Every time I collide and face myself with the seat belt inside of me, I collect the cup and comb and I want to go most of all from myself and here are the miracles that are suddenly real and the meter works again, it turns out that my soul turns out to be me.

Engraved emotions.

Embroidered words.

The stories that I emulate are hidden in the past, but as of today, I knit realities that remain fresh and from dreams, on the other hand, I imprison the love in square brackets and add the rings one by one.

Stationary season.

Paused rhymes.

Writers and poets that I took my hat off to on the way I set out to write nonstop.

I'm falling for my favourite.

I am glad, one by one, with the child inside me and with my journey in the past, I am making the day with my words, I healed the wounds that burned my soul when they were words.

My best man, love, memories hidden on my left.

The first step I take with my right foot and on my tongue.

I coincide with such a time that I dig into the past with sickles one by one.

On the sill of the night where I put the day to sleep.

While the spring, which I bid farewell to the season, whistles at my window.

And yes, when the weather is cold and dwarf February, my guest is I satirize life with the taste of spring, and I dive into the dimples of the winter sun on his face turned to spring, with a smile on my face in the dead of night and my cardigan on my back, come see that I am happy in the presence of the night and the cold.

I'm defeated, life.

I am the victim of hunger, which sometimes breaks my heart like stale crackers, but as a person who always suppresses his hunger, I am most deceived by the hunger of my soul and I write page by page.

The bird in me has no accent.

The life I live, even if it's not alluring.

I put my weight in front of people like sprouts and full ears, I bow my head only in the position of God, I sometimes grow and sometimes shrink in the breeze of Divine Love, and I show my difference in the eyes of other people by closing inside first and then outside.

The one who comes knocking.

Is it because I am not one of those who say you play and I will tell?

I sit crookedly and speak the truth, and even though I am not very accepted with my truthful identity, I am grateful to the wind blowing in me and I am at peace with my conscience. Sometimes I round the decimal point inside me to such a zero, and of course, from the beginning.

Plus whatever is hidden in my household.

Minus the prejudices and tears.

While I am on the side of those who do not love me with fairness and regret, I suddenly make sure that I am loved.

Sometimes a bird perched on the window.

Sometimes it's the cycle I'm glad to be in.

Sometimes I chat over a cup of tea.

Most of all, as I reach for the beauty and mercy of Divine Love, which knows the power of the unknown that I am winging, bouncing from a feeling to a word, with the happiness of touching myself while writing, I never care about the missing ones anyway, when I have already given up the possessions of the world, with that gigantic separator I put between life and emotions, and with my sadness, a fixed route with quiet love. I determine and move towards my goal.