I suffer from my dreams of pickpockets, doctor, traveler, of course, only you can fix the rhythm disorder in my heart.
With the poems I wrote like a sublingual and my dreams full of stories minutes later, I pass through the last door that opens.
What part of the snatched life do I fix and rebuild?
I am like a schoolgirl: I am still pure and clumsy, yet so excited and sometimes like a deflating balloon, I emptied the air inside and fell on the ground, of course, my desire to be filled again with the power of faith and this time to be at the altitude of guidance.
Oh, doctor: I'll tell you even if you don't ask.
And even if I ask, you won't answer.
Wherever I hold it, I fall out and I feed the daily troubles in the cavity of my tooth with yesterday and believe that; Even that sounds too little.
Do I really love you as much as I do, doctor, besides, I apply the prescription you wrote to me day by day, of course, because you know beforehand...
The doses in the prescription are never enough because I have to overdose and be betrayed by those I love so much, and know that otherwise I can't be put on a blank page and write.
Of course, I had my rotten teeth x-rayed. The interesting thing is that there is not a single rotten tooth in my mouth, this time I have my soul x-rayed and hand it over to you, and I know that this time I will be poisoned by radiation, but I still perform my duty.
It is not possible for me to be subordinate to you, you are just a doctor and I am a patient who refuses to heal.
Of course, the supply-demand curve is not easily adapted to life, and even though I was top of the class in economics, I could not keep the balance.
Maybe I'm a cash register: I present my feelings to the universe in return, sentences are given to my house again minus and plus take away each other and this time I correspond to the smallest prime number, at least I am not the person who swallows it, nevertheless, I am loaded from a prime number and set to zero, of course, it drives me like a wheel one after another.
Do people always go uphill, doctor?
The pen in my hand is sometimes like a walking stick.
of a castrated century,
Viruses and diseases are rampant,
In the days of masquerade pain,
Unfortunate, their tongues cut off,
His words were ignored
Their love is battered,
Bent-necked, always beaten and abused,
Bride on the fifteenth,
Generally not seeing a happy day,
Mothers with calloused hands, magnanimous,
We are all unlucky children.
Our poems are wistful,
That's why we are not understood,
We are poor with dual degrees,
We can't build a home even if we wanted to.
Is it a word that swallowed a cane, or who knows in which nook will I be reborn this time, by which I was swallowed while the one I was chasing was of course zero?
My color is still pink, is it always embarrassing?
I roll my eyes in the darkening sky and sneak into the star cluster I stumbled upon.
My mood is in a dynamic state.
Self-defense is actually mine, and I'm tearing up from good behavior, it's not enough, I tear up and destroy whatever I write, actually I know that I'm a spelling mistake and I never go there.
My seizure is not over yet, and I bandage the images that come to the ED and present them to you, sometimes I don't take the pulse of the words and I take them directly to the morgue.
Will they come back to life, doctor?
Oh, how many thousand more star years will I live, love and even bloom, of course, it will burn too much so that my soul will be revealed, whatever is hidden inside me.
The blood pressure goes up and down, and when the sugar of my feelings drops, the only chocolate image I put in my mouth is enough, of course, I manage life as much as I keep it together, and I am at the forefront in the dream lane, of course, I am running the marathon of my life with the flag in my hand.
Can you keep up with my speed?
Or can you revive my fading enthusiasm?
Of course, I cool my wings for the sake of the endless wind that I have opened to eternity, poems from my wounds, poems from my berets, and of course, I am happy every day because I am very disconnected from what I write or happiness: it is thanks to my writing.
I know there is no cure for this problem, but doctor or do you agree too?
Tomorrow has good days,
Whatever comes, let it come from you, my dear,
A rough wind in my head.
Even if every side snow, flood,
One of the seasons in my heart is a sunny April.
To burn the ships anyway,
To embrace separations, reunions,
to be reborn,
to be raining,
To be happy with small things, to be distracted
To cry loudly on your knees tomorrow like a child
To ram the beehive without fear,
We got along anyway.
This time, this longing will not go on,
Lovers hug each other at length.
Whatever comes, let it come from you, my dear,
A rough wind in my head.
Goodbye for now, until we meet again.
