I pile my poems in an ashtray and apply my feelings to aphorisms condemnation

Keep your dreams hidden, I didn't have blues...

Hide your orphanhood, don't forget that the veil you hide in is actually the veil of longing, and you have that white wedding dress that you gave up wearing, hanging down from the bottom of your longing to the happiness you longed for.

Love is only for one person in my world and freedom, which never crosses paths with my subject, is at the heart of what I write, which I do not claim to have written or anything, just as I claim that I am not a woman...

My loneliness is a junk and I pile my poems in an ashtray, and the slightly smoky head of the amorous Ferry is my identity, the city is my denunciation of the cogwheel feelings and aphorisms that I have commented on.

I am the best man of my sorrow.

I am still eighteen years old.

Is it the happiness of being half overturned or an absolute freedom, and I never liked to go out in the dark, so I denounce the night from day to day and I respect the light inside me and I mars the ghost in front of me, convinced that there is a windfall every time I throw a ball.

I'm on the alert

Maybe I'm July, and I still see every greenery I see as a paradise in the city center, as well as the character named beautiful in the TV series that got high ratings.

My life is hidden in my flower pot.

The pollen flying in my soul and the poems that live with butterflies, of course, I sing, but even if I don't give a fuck about the cruelty, I always lose during the day.

What do I drink next to what I drink?

A glass of tea and gray next to it, after all, my pen has to keep its form, and the uniform I wear on me grows in the scent of the sea like dreams floating on the quay, and I am growing my fondness for freedom.

When was I deemed free?

It is neither a child nor a result of me being a good girl at my age, otherwise why would my demons and my eyes that pierce the darkness be the remnant of a foggy day that was lurking into the night for whatever reason…

I would have been a good accountant, but I chose banking and in the short journey of my life, the chair I was leaning on in the bank for some reason sank to me and how I got taller when I resigned.

I lived the secret of a dream for a lifetime.

Even though I had nothing to do with the education I received, I fell back on the way to school and became a teacher with pride and love, again in a short period of my life, and I bloomed in front of my students and that's when I tasted freedom:

Teacher's love.

Even though I had a throne in the large hearts of my students and my dream came true, my enthusiasm faded in a short time and I came back to myself. I realized that I was actually an inverted tulip in one night, and the moment came with the languor of being a calm star in my ancestry, this time I fell in love with the moonlight and it was love, my route is a very funny route, after all, the pronunciation of love was very different in people's minds.

It is very obvious that I was promised because I was the one who missed me and when I was an oral translator, I did not know a ten-finger typewriter, and I learned how to use a computer on my own.

It happened to the cooked chicken that happened to me, on New Year's Eve and on the first day of the new year, I incubated and redrawn my route.

Was I the only captain who did not leave his ship, but every wave rises, I always presented my nature with a life jacket made of words, day and night, and while my slogan was love, I was going to be a poet and that day every time the sea rises, I go to my captain's cabin and look away with binoculars maybe the glaciers approaching are the Titanic inside me, unfortunately, I do not give a place to my yesterday in my world that imprisoned me and I was swept away by cold waters and built my salvation from God and all overturned sentences.

A compliment is the curtsy of the pen.

On the other hand, I present love and my words as a reference and prove in the shabby loneliness of the out-of-this-world world that I am not alone or would it be possible for those who listened to the call of the pen and visited my heart…

I wrote more than a poem.

More than a thousand stories, the Cinderella and the fountain in me are my words, perhaps the raising of my heart, and here is my life story hidden in my bundle.