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I read what you go through and every time I look at your face
I am in the bed of dreams, my rebel wind, and I am openly waiting on the paths of Love.
My words are the control of my soul.
Oh, I don't have any burnt letters, so I can mail them to myself, and hundreds of sentences that I sewed from my plain words, what's wrong with being noble, especially if a person is rebellious inside.
I unzipped my mouth the first day I started speaking:
First I said mother, then father, but what I felt at first was, of course, God is hidden inside me, which I always took as a motto.
I'm calling out to you, whoever you are.
To you only to you, woman or man without a name.
My colors are embarrassed today.
My color is light pink.
And my quiet dreams, my miserable heart grafted, are like a tattoo hidden on my arm, where I put my feelings on the page and then forgot in a corner, just like I was forgotten.
Oh, especially my notable.
The women and men I don't know are the ridicule I sometimes take advantage of, whereas I am as much as the point, I am always a poem that writes what is hidden inside me, in fact, what I wrote is day and night, while I lived like a poem.
My heart is silent.
Hey, you, do you hear me and I read what you're going through and every time I look at your face, when I'm hurt the most and hang in the sky, here's my God alone for a lifetime, when I can't make a servant of God believe, and when you are falsely accused and under suspicion.
Someone knows: ya, you?
How many more me are there inside of me: do you think?
I have made peace with my sadness and I am still at war with the orphan inside me.
Didn't I tell you that what I'm contented with is a grave full of people and torment that I couldn't get enough of, and sometimes shadows, sometimes clouds on my horizon, but don't be a shadow?
I love it out of the blue, and since I've known myself, I've abandoned myself and finally reached the pinnacle of pain.
Have I fallen in love?
But this is not the love you know: I am a torment in the grave in love with manifest love.
While the chants are hidden, some people in the world have broken their intentions from yesterday and it is not easy, believe me: loving people from afar and falling in love...
I can make thousands of sentences that spread to my sadness, and then I destroy all the sentences I have formed with one stroke.
Why did men drink wine and women drink water? Why was one gender so prosperous while the other was so poor? What effect did poverty have on literature? What conditions were necessary for the creation of works of art? A thousand questions had popped up at once. But one needed answers, not questions, and answers could only be obtained by consulting knowledgeable, unprejudiced people.
If a woman wanted to write a literary work, she had to have her own room and money.
I'm not easily destroyed, but if I burn the bridges in between, my life goes away.
Satire of life and you and you.
Freedom of the heart and mystery are not monopolized by the universe.
The honor and honesty that I'm after like law enforcement, and here are people who are full of reproaches.
Ah, yes: how everyone is white and naive and cautious and noble.
On the other hand, I am both a rebel and a noble wind, and what I have destroyed is just inside of me.
My soul is enchanted, with my rebellious temperament and my silence, even though I cannot escape from the cellar where I hide, it is my pen that protects me now and my neck is never bent, and it is my Lord who has protected me since eternity.
A tree hollow is where I hide.
My existence is a myth.
If it is a betrayal, what I wrote is of course for myself.
How many writings and poems that were recorded in the registry, especially if it is my destiny that I could not write...
That's why I fall on a blank page every day and I dream for seconds and then my words explode and I reach out to people whose names I don't know, and of course I present my hand on a golden platter.
I can love you, or rather, I do.
I doubt it, but from myself.
A triangle with no pain or angle in the cinema.
And here is the pen, if the hypotenuse of my feelings did not exist, the pen was broken a million times, just like the words flying in my broken heart, while it is a miracle that I can still live in a universe where I can't get enough of writing and loving.
My affliction never rests.
My love also does not go out, and falling in love with love, not whom, is my subject and my longing is the line of a life that is most unpleasant to me.
My blue shirt.
My eyes turn a little green, and they shed nonstop, and I live too, while I am guessing more or less what I think of people in my own way.
I couldn't walk from singular to plural.
I could not start suddenly and reach two digits.
Even though I melt like a candle, I do not go out.
I can't even tell.
That's why every time I write is a confession, when I feel thousands of poems with the emotions I gather from the words blooming in the layers of love, when I collect the sun shining brightly in a single eye and live at night, while I bring a story hidden in the past to the light of day.