You are a postponed dream, teacher, maybe you are a broken counter hidden in dream clusters. Did a person who was tortured by love considered it a virtue?
Life is lived uphill, is it after?
Not only is it not going downhill, but there is a way to go even more, while they are dream brokers in the dignified stance of life, which haunts happiness and dreams.
In dream crops.
In the shadow of many happy October I dreamed of.
Ah, teacher, the only being that I belong to with my supplication that never ceases even when you are not suffering, and the only place where I am not questioned and ignored, and knowing the facts, witnessing my dreams being stolen and allowing me to start over and run from where I left off over and over again.
Moreover, my great Lord, the lofty plane tree, my lofty existence, and that lofty breeze and the hiccup hidden in my throat, of course, when I was the diary of my traumatized life, when I was the epitome of hope and love, longing and oh, my miserable subject.
I had stitches, but my stitches were removed later in life, and I covered the remaining stitch marks with hope, enthusiasm and excitement, and I hid under it.
My being that is added as a relative stop.
My crease feelings: that I bleed and bled but did not deceive as much as I remember but not remembered, and that even love, which is the only permissible love, is considered a violation of rights.
Oh, teacher, only you can understand me, and when I speak in a suitable language, you are the one who pats me on the back, while I who do not give up the pain that passes by, while I am going to breathe relative happiness, my heart exploded and its contents, and here is my life spent in the deep freezer, where it is considered a crime to be so warm and sincere.
I am neither arrogant, nor am I a teacher, nor do I like innuendo.
Of course, I'm sorry for my yesterday, even when I don't even understand how the enthusiasm in me is still hidden, both in my past, in my present and in my future.
Sometimes angry and angry, of course, to that confused and loveless child in me.
A person wishes to be loved, doesn't he?
What if I didn't wish?
The dilemma of life is not necessarily love, but the desire to love that comes from me sometimes changes color, sometimes the wind blows fast, sometimes my quiet temperament, sometimes the virgin timbre of the new day and a knot that hangs from night to night, of course I'm stuck in, of course I squeezed the heart into.
A superstitious syllable or love, teacher?
If you know, tell me so.
Besides, I'm not asking you to love me or anything, just stop and listen and just try to understand me.
Understand, I'm not saying: just try.
Guess what I'm up to in a climate that drains my energy for no reason?
And I never tell: neither to you nor to anyone else.
My feelings are aligned now and I don't want any more time from the world, I just want to put my signature under it, when that long contract is presented to me.
Don't think I did, I'm just chasing big shadows on the plane of the night I lie down with my soul, which is sometimes placed on the joints of feelings that change lanes.
What is all this shadow that descended on me from yesterday when I had even cast my shadow?
Talking about love on top of it.
And the one who slapped my inner voice.
Doesn't their conscience ever ache when I haven't even had a flick from my father?
I couldn't save the world and I wasn't enough for people.
I was sacrificed when there was not a single speck of the world, my eyes only inclined to the good and I listened to the voice of my conscience and wanted to touch the hearts one by one.
My heart.
But they don't even condescend, they don't even listen to listen for once, on the other hand, the walls also have ears, when I cry silently, those walls get overflowing and here is a person's temperament, which is the one who sets out to circumambulate hearts.
Faith is my best man, my teacher and the counter to my left.
Word on my tongue, when did I hit the road and myself.
I also saw the dumb devils and they spoke, when did I fall into tare, when did I fall in love, when did I fall to the ground.
A thick silence is both my wish, my wind, and I run away as much as I hurt, here I am, back and the only interlocutor of all my feelings and secrets with whom I am matched, and with the permission of the Lord, a mountain of hope I wish to reach, but which does not rain, but rains, but loves but is loved more, and the echo of my dreams is sometimes full of hypocrisy discourses and the faithful voice in my heart, sometimes the ground that I scratch, sometimes the sadness of the wife, sometimes the hand of the amorous city with which I matched.
When crossing a bridge.
Also, did you pass out?
Not giving up on love and hope.
Sometimes, the trademark of that star cluster, where the sadness is pumped in my veins and my heart is counting, like a moon fattening in an acne-prone daylight, while the words I took refuge in, of course, I sang with my star identity and withered never to bloom with my flower identity.
I am ashamed of myself.
And I apologize to the whole world, to people's empty memories for being burdened with my enthusiasm and desire to love.
Here's the version of a movie I've started, I'm standing on my feet with my pain teacher and seeing you draw a line on me and I cry for myself, still I pray, maybe it's a miracle to be able to live and write at the end of all that I shouldn't be taken on, but know that I am the child of miracles and the only one of my life. When I was its inventor, my Lord, I only wish that tomorrow will be better than today, and I just look at life and people well, knowing that I will be hurt again and again.
Then forget what you know, teacher, even forget that you even know me, after all, it is my hope that you don't hurt me anymore, let it be me this time, and here I am hurting myself once again for you, when a miracle happens and one day we meet above the clouds and we will be together and who knows how much more I will fall for people and love until that day, while I am a hopeful regular in a world that I have not deceived at least.
