I have postponed dreams that I write poems from my dreams to my life

I'm after an abandoned word, when you know; that he understands me.

My tawny heart, my admonish words and my forehead, that I desire nothing more than.

Maybe it's a postponed dream, maybe whatever I have in the field of my inner world, where I compose poems from my dreams about my river life and dream of a journey about the harvest of the crop days and leave it fallow.

Sometimes I wish to be a dot, or rather, when my existence is as small as a dot, my existence puts a hard and pompous point.

My feelings that I'm holding.

I am waiting for the miracles hidden in my faith.

I can't get enough of the light that will pour out of my head while I am the herald of the guidance that I will come out of my three points and a maxim.

I don't have any excuses and I'm not a wannabe either: either there is no servant of God that I take as a role model, or I just reward my soul that I emulate. I don't see it as big as I used to.

And people.

The slovenly shadows.

My heart is never a ruin, nor a wreck.

Who knows how many thousand days and nights I have been under the rubble, I wake up to a new day intact and hide in the balance of a tale I have compiled.

Maybe I'm out of shape.

Or two cents a core.

I already threw my favorite clothes into the piggy bank, and I put on something comfortable and lazily steps on my back and I took my troubles…

How many thousand years has it been, when the warmth of the heaven I have reached after walking through the muddy roads with my high-heeled shoes is already hidden inside me?

Bales of sadness.

Hundreds of students I call dahlia.

That flood of love that nudges my motherliness, not the sadness inside me.

My children, whom I fly in the corridors of schools and whom I am afraid of hurting even when I caress their head with my self-confidence.

Is there a reason why I'm alive today?

If I write, will there be no more?

My dreams and enthusiasm when I said I escaped from a fairy tale and transferred to another fairy tale and when I was the cheerleader of my heart.

My silence hidden in poems.

My stories speak for me.

They confiscated my witty heart, carrying the compass hidden in my world to the day, burying the sadness in my day deeply, and while I was going back and forth between dimensions many times, although many things I lost myself but couldn't manage, even though my fate made it real, even though I got a valid grade, people I couldn't get along with, my happiness that I passed over, and the notion that is considered success, while I still couldn't figure out what it was. .

A greeting or a word perhaps…

If hunger is an instinct, what does it matter when I have trained myself with hunger for a lifetime, and what does it matter when they usurped my peace of mind, which I ended up with and brewed for the sake of stubbornness, both after and before the years when I was hungry for medicine.

While the nights are the eve of waking up to a new day after long-term dreams, when the dreams are crowned with overflowing stones and tired, of course I go up and down the slope of hope...

How many years of memory does a bitter coffee have...

And all my loved ones with whom I drank cups of coffee and my memories from yesterday…

It is so; Those who knock on the door of my house every day in the most enthusiastic and happiest years of my life, and the beauty of spending time with them all day long, I didn't even realize that I was tired and deceived...

The ones I haven't told yet in my stories.

My great Lord, my confidant, my mountain, and I am sure that he is my only friend, whom I buried all my troubles in during those happy years and laughed thanks to my loved ones, and then realized his fake smiles too late, and who is likely to burn in my eyes like a fading light on my face. As if it wasn't enough that I entrusted my entire existence.

Afterwards, after the months and years when I was tested with my loved ones and my family, when we danced together on the brink of death, and after years of sleep, I missed the day and night, when I had already given up the success and the possessions of the world and finally saw and digested everything properly.

I've been going in every way.

I'm halfway through every road.

The only breeze I feel in every direction is that hope circulates and while the invitation of peace cannot find peace in many things, I now know what gives peace.

The only thing I benefited from was the sense of peace and gratitude that I attained in the movement of faith, and the more I added, the more resigned life and the hereafter did not frighten me, and I sewed with love, thousands of sentences, hundreds of writings and poems, and your words would break at the joints.

Let's see that I am not as sad as I used to be so that others can know and understand what the Creator knows, whom I ran with and took shelter with only love; With the dominant attack of my inner voice, I laid out my life in vigilance with peace and hope.

Your faith in your spiral.

My inner voice as it blooms.