You're in a question I asked when my walls were falling down! What dream are you a native of, my dear mind, and what soul's flashing blue consolation are you hiding, or are you a ghost wandering in the attic with your oblivion before me?
As the tiny kittens in me scratch my stomach and console myself with a glass of water on the steep walls of hunger.
As a consolation, I call you and touch the manifested peace softly: no matter where you look, this cloud called peace, which my soul hangs on, does not exceed an hour at the most, then I succumb to my sadness and I reach my previous life again.
If I have a life, it is the nobility that accompanies my tears that I have not patched.
It is more than a slovenly dream, dozens of rumors hidden inside me.
The sun god of the season and my forgotten smiles.
The corridors of my mind where strangers come and go: the smooth surface and the notification of happiness that I wish to reach by sanding my soul like pulses that are both hidden in yesterday and escaping from the moment and waiting to be cooked in the pressure cooker of tomorrow.
How I listen to my inner voice and update the incompatibility of the feelings I recorded with my nature after the tears that the water flowing from the long and streak-marked life fountain, which I thought like a barley dove when I could not come to my senses for a long time, after my stolen dreams, and all the documents I memorized like floods.
It's mid-morning while I'm crushed.
That my dreams that escaped sleep accompanied the poems.
Maybe in the sadness of the day I dreamed of death, the magical sound of the birds flapping their wings that transforms life into heaven, and here I am starting to count again. I am quoting every witty sentence that I dreamed would add color to my life from a text I memorized from start to finish, and I write my story all over again.
That I threw the pen and smashed the leaves when it was only a matter of time before it ended.
In a life where I was accused and arrested for my inner voice, which was reported seconds before the happy ending, behind the scenes, maybe revealing everything that I did not dare to write, the deepest secrets and mysteries and the flying skirts made my heart tremble like a fire caught in the spell of the wind or the words blowing inside me...
The syllables I split.
A refrain I stole from a poem whose rhyme doesn't fit.
Maybe the stories I collected from my past, which I relentlessly go back to and remember with stability.
The pictures I drew on the walls of loneliness, struggling with impossibility, when the radar was the incident of love that I've been imprisoned for in my lifetime.
If it is a path, when I said I had just stepped on, I opened parenthesis and the life I questioned hit my face like a slap, or would I go back to the beginning, could I give the orphan inside me a guarantee of what I would change?
I met him while I was walking on the shore of my dreams.
What I came across was actually the one before myself that I came across, how many me are hidden inside me, and I would never have thought that I would love my inner voice as much as I resent the external voice, what do you call mind anyway?
In the name of thousands of information and emotional declarations pushed into the background, a covered table, of course, called sub-memory, all its dirt swelled up and ceased to function before it started to smell.
All the memories hidden in the memory, pickpocket dreams and facts such as harpoons are now giving way to what feelings and thoughts and a limited time are reserved for us people in the name of happiness.
The remnant of happiness is like a smile that leaks out with the aging people and emotions, and then the pain that has no nationality and the calmness of the inner perspective, which we are divided into pieces after, or hiccups and tears: like well-behaved children in a prison called the mind, the guard whose face we know but we ignore. While yesterday's legacy is yesterday's legacy, our past has remained in black and white photographs.
I offer my condolences to the day.
While it is the wish of the night, I have to scribble a few lines and write before the day is lost, in order to illuminate and illuminate life, starting from the darkness in the soul of the dead day.
It is only a matter of time before they come, but I do not wish them to come, as I cannot go to their graves, and when I see the curtains moving in a windless weather, I put my head under the covers.
A hypothetical climate accompanies the night, different seasons that are actually hidden in the moment, and when I witness the hum of the wind and the sound of the rain, I take a deep breath and say oh, and I pass out with the smell of fragrant earth, whereas in the middle of the city under construction there is neither earth nor the accompanying smell. After I wipe the summer rain and my tearful eyes and caress the flower in the pot, I leave everything alone and when it means being a normal person, my silence pulls my ear and taps the wood and walks to the kitchen without making a sound when my hands are gone.
The silhouette of peace is not easily encountered, so I am waiting for that day when I will appear before the Creator.
Maybe the extension of longing is my inner voice that stands on end, of course, that calm harbor where I took refuge in my longing world.
On the other hand, I draw a curtain on the happiness between existence and non-existence.
