I'm close to the jugular vein in your neck where I string pearls of emotion

I'm close to the jugular vein in your neck where I string pearls of emotion

Clusters of dreams are obviously documents of betrayal and dreams hidden in the face of reality.

While that song sung by the fragile birds, who have unanimously agreed to the concerto of the universe, is of course the daylight that drives the joy of the earth, and our soul and body that we surrender to the night, and then the bones we remove, the poems are also the address of the day that ends and the life that ends.

Evil dusty roads.

In the carpenter's shop, the tools and hardware are in your heart.

I have stories.

I have a yesterday that I emulate, but…

You have a past of doubt that I will never pronounce, let there be everything in the past, let there be things considered success, and here I am rewriting life and words that correspond to my existence when it means being nothing.

Where being one corresponds to being united, it spreads and obeys sentences and happiness.

The words that I bounce with my imagination are that I fit a day into square brackets and that I can easily love destruction, hope, and loss, love, and in any case.

Someone poisoned by my overdose love.

While your expeditionary words and traveler images are sobbing, I sway like a dervish in the climate of the night, even though I don't carry stones, my arms get tired, but I never hesitate to open my arms.

A ritual day and a moving night.

Glorious defeats are hidden in my tag.

Dark clouds full of enmity or acrimony, and I'm waiting where mercy fills my heart.

The supplicating breeze.

The eyes are the steps of the dome of the sky and the stairs that I climbed based on the sky…

Every heart corresponds to a star and I am the North Star.

I am a cloud in love with the moonlight, maybe my clock and inner voice that I set for tomorrow, although I do not know the nature of what is waiting on my horizon.

I lament to the wind and commemorate my yesterday and make vows to the love I have come of age.

Sun-faced traveler.

The night-eyed woman and her face are familiar poems.

The dust I shovel in front of me and the shavings I shovel with is your life.

Sometimes there are those who set a set, sometimes I have a rest.

There are some that I comment on my day, and sometimes the laces of my heart are untied while walking.

People sometimes scribble like clustered clouds.

Prettier as a duck like a swan bird.

There are mixed feelings in my inner voice and I am told to a bad voice, sometimes I am popular with my silence, sometimes I am silent and my pen speaks and there are people who revive my heart.

The countryside of the heart where I planted smiles.

The expulsion of domination-laden darkness.

I declare the evil to God and the lien has come, I am foaming at my yesterday, and forgetting the opportunities that escaped my hands, I sit down and derive thousands of sentences.

A crime sometimes happens around me.

On the other hand, those who rule are exposed, and the scaffolding that I cross-legged is of course the architect of my soul, the almighty Lord, and the words that engage are sometimes I eliminate and sometimes I withdraw.

I am a lost climate where I actually buried my yesterday.

I'm obvious enthusiasm loving my day.

I am a dreamer and my soul is imprisoned in hope.

Thanks to the Creator, the Divine Confidence of Love, the obstacles I overcame from yesterday are an axis that reached my day and many things are an axis in the past, and the universe is also a dilemma in me, and I killed my handicapped soul with happiness. clock: a fixed time period in which the hour and minute hands do not interfere with each other…

Birth and death.

yesterday and today.

My guidance and strength.

The intrusive wind, swept away sadness, the shadows of love.

All kinds of emotions, where I feed mostly from my pain and the water of the fountain called sadness, my heart that sometimes fills with tears, or all the darkness and mud that I have cleaned is somehow thrown on me, but I am not offended and when I am a song that I refer to, my joy of living and here I am in the day and do it inside me. -the merry boy playing the grizzly and the Divine Power who took care of him even though he was an orphan…

While I have always felt strongly the one close to the jugular vein on my neck, where I had pearls strung out of the emotions that I could hardly turn around and be equipped with, and only asked for it from Him, my peace and commitment to life that bestowed and recurred at the right time even what I did not want...

If I'm a poem I haven't written yet.

If I am a novel, the summer never ends.

A story is hundreds of hidden inside me.

My route is in the direction of the Divine Light…