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I'm angry at my pen, my inner voice is still on silent waiting
On my journey, the train that I caught at the last moment in the back car, and once I was its locomotive, my life, my pride and my teachings were defeated.
I had a father who had such beautiful hazel eyes.
I was the only one, he wouldn't be in any trouble.
He was a simple man, he didn't get up from his seat much.
There were too many of us, she wouldn't talk to me.
Then he dived into a white tale.
I experienced my greatest pain that day.
Crying sounded like a lullaby to my heart.
The child in me was calming down as I cried.
I like to cry that day.
I'm crying as I write this, but I promised.
But I still remembered him.
Look, now I am very young, we are traveling with my father, a few people on the road ask my father if he is a grandchild and then they pat my head and it is in my power, I still remember.
While I don't know where I will stand on the route called life school now that I have graduated from the front door of schools in a lifetime that I can't make up for.
Do you suffer from nationality?
Is it because I'm a satellite?
Maybe I am the cursor of the sky, and here are the darkening clouds, while I can make the sky bright even in blackout nights.
His manifesto is mingled with all the words and the pen is still silent.
Am I really the disposition of your words?
The pen that I chased and broke the head of.
If the sky is the powerhouse, the clouds are me, the wind itself is the wind and I am still my sluggish pen.
These are the days when I hit a wall.
The wind that came in through the chimney that I fired from the door I pulled from the ear, of course, I am angry at the lamentable stance of my pen, my inner voice is still silently waiting.
Dominant and predatory sound of external voice.
I live when injustice is at its height.
Deprivation is at an extreme level, the tension of my being is at its peak and my clustered emotions are starting to move a little, if only a little.
I couldn't tell.
I fell on top of the hill where I got up on a handstand.
The pen still refuses me.
Is it the signal that I'm loyal or silent, your inner voice?
The dominant one is the wind and the sadness, while I always sing like a bird in windy and sad weather.
Eventually, the sky erupts, thunder one after the other, and it is raining softly, while the snowflakes say, the pen begins to pour out one by one, while I am crying loudly with the stones on her skirt, we find a middle way and start drawing together with my pen from the end of loneliness on the threshold of the snow.
If it's sideways, it's people.
The labels are at a high and the wind that whips my pain The Creator is on hold.
It is the Creator that ends the gloomy weather.
My life has never been this hot.
The pen is still and sad.
The heavens exploded at last.
I am not freed.
Free couplets and my underrated heart and self.
Inspiration or understanding?
Humanity and innocence if it is marked with a pain and exile that I cannot destroy beyond what I have performed…