I will suddenly find peace in the bondage of love

A rough wind is pounding inside me. It's like the universe incubated.

To the wound of the night where I present a section of my stricken dreams, and the flickering and moving stars inside me, sometimes a picture I draw, sometimes the earth on which I crouch. On the curved roads of your life, I wait like an abandoned child, the night of my soul and the shift of my loneliness, and the darkness with which I exchange, many people whom I have avoided in order not to cause another renunciation, which I have warned my soul to be as ragged as I sway in clusters of dreams.

There are feelings that need to be aligned, a lever that can be hidden, and my battered loneliness, sometimes the sky where I stare, sometimes I rock a cradle hidden in the darkness of the night that eats rooster candy, maybe I swing in it.

I vouch for my heart, which has a lot of credible feelings, many people, and the disclosure of which life has become a mess.

He's a stampede detainee.

People who overflow from that rebellious, spiteful soul, I love dryly, maybe too late, maybe too early.

It's a hard-necked season and I have a headstrong temperament, but one thing I know: I have lived and will live without compromising my truth.

My tearful eyes are hidden in trembling silhouettes.

My green eyes turn a hazel-like color green, so much beauty, so many trees and leaves, and the vast land of my heart where I planted flowers soon passes into the rain that will ring, after all, I am verse and maybe I couldn't fit in the place where I took so much shelter in my Lord.

Words that will explode from the night of the best man's day.

A wind hidden on my left, sometimes cold, sometimes in the captivity of love, I will suddenly find peace.

I'm not whining.

I don't care for the leaking shadows.

There are many things that heal, maybe a refugee predicate and so many hidden subjects, here is the quilt I spread over my soul and how tired I am, here is a strange abductor who still hopes for help from love as the ice melts as the night falls.

I have presented to people that I will never immigrate from the climate of love.

While we came to the world to love, we...

The people whose conversations grow in the shadow of the endless haste and their souls and the blank rhetoric just as the stone turns white, and here I am recording every minute of the day with an infallible hand and inscription, but I do not regret the orphan child inside me, moreover, the answers I received in return for the love of so many people are like slaps on my face. like, and even if I leave the door open, there are those who slam the door.

Shape-shifters.

Its image is ladylike and sometimes it is a jester.

My brave heart, the mourning and the breeze, which is sometimes not missing, what kind of a relative text will I make of those who come after me whenever I collect them, you know, the fringe rhetoric?

My inner wound and patch.

Even though the voices accompanying the sadness, I know that my joy of life, which is sometimes blocked, I do my share that someone will set a barrier in front of me anyway, and I plant seeds in the idle hearts of people and sleepwalking images, as quickly as I interrupt my sleep, I skip subtitles to the past day and life.

A riot sometimes ringing in my ears.

I'm not even in reproach, I'm never offended.

My intuitions are like poppies blooming in the countryside, and I am not crushed, I kiss the soil and accompany the sprouts that grow like saplings and every new day when I can't even touch anyone if it's a flower.