You are the cry of a dream, most of all, you are a mystery prodded by the dream fairies of your dreams on the skirts of whirling master.
Overflowing from the lines.
Sometimes shot.
Sometimes, like an apple that gets worms, you are a fruit that does not fall from the sky, you are not approached in chain markets.
Your loom is hidden in the dream harvest.
What you live with your sadness that you let your soul idle, what you hide in your chest and keep it hidden in those stories you knit from the melodies hidden in the climates you don't live, what is the silence that you escaped from before and gave up your moment and donated it to the future.
It means that you draw the curtain of your dreams.
Much more than your exposure, you travel on a lost road.
If it's a confidant, isn't it enough that you hide your pen in an unapproved statement?
Your dress is bloody.
You are the inventor, and you are the murderer of your own life, with your murderous feelings and the peace and peace you persistently seek.
Your mad soul.
So many tropes left over from sky smiles.
Like a heartbeat in the rhythm of the thick silence, sometimes like a life that you can't take its pulse, sometimes like the feelings crawling on the draped skirts of the season you care about.
Ah, what are you underestimating?
A truth hidden in a dream basket that is considered heavy, maybe like an exposure hidden in the stem cell of the day you sometimes frame the realities with loincloth, or maybe yesterday.
Ah, like the taunts that you stutter and songs like fringes of forgotten syllables never go away.
Are your feelings mocking?
Of course, that unquoted pain that pierces your heart is actually a dream that has been revealed, and you are worth thousands of unopened smiles.
Pure blood solitude.
Your purity-laden entity.
Dream of saffron yellow.
Your diary full of sophistry is like a smoke that is smoking in the new day, like death stuck in the chimney of the city ferries, like love, like cantor, and that star whose tail you are, actually that star that blinks words and you are actually telling fortunes from the stars playing in your eyes, actually in your back pocket, your poems are in your back pocket, like hibiscus blooming in the greening climates, with your pious heart While you still can't understand what a waste yesterday was when you offered your condolences.
You live in a mess.
You never mind those who play tambourines.
If your peers are looking for help in your emotions and matching words, it means that now is the time for your happiness and happiness, and before the cocoon you hide in explodes, without escaping from the ambush in which you move, as long as you make your dreams come alive and live, never minding the darkness that sometimes haunts your powdery soul.
Even if you're going to pull the pull pin, it's your life:
Either you will sink or you will come out, of course, your prayers that you do not miss from your tongue and heart, and when you are your Lord, your only companion.
You're a dream product, you.
You are a soul hidden in that hook on which you hang like a delusion dripping from your shackled heart:
Lost.
You are shameful, but how much rebellion can fit into the tally kept by those who reprimand.
"Don't make a sound..."
What are you worried about besides what you've compiled?
However, the sect of the world that you know as a milk port is wide.
Why does what you hear and what is said to your face never match?
Before an end that you will reach in silence.
The day-to-day diary of the guidance you still haven't reached.
The words are the equivalent of silence, your most restless side and loneliness, teacher.
The dream is the story of every time you devour the rusk.
Disappointment when the people you love are hidden even in the crumbs of your soul.
All the stones that I broke because of being broken are pre-apocalyptic, slice by slice, before death, where you stand on your feet.
If it is a memorandum, I want permission from people.
My beating heart.
My life to be read.
Dew if it's my color.
My color is dream pink, eaten raw.
I can't beat.
I am defeated.
I was wrong.
I'm settled.
Well, who am I?
Words are bland, sometimes addicted to my tired and rebellious heart, my cup of sadness, my fool's loneliness, my teacher.
My being put in usury is the numbers that I consulted, just like the leading usury numbers in inflation, and my dream full of notches.
A passenger.
He is a pioneer whose fight does not stop even if the quilt is gone.
The eyelashes of the climate are falling out, teacher, I am addicted, please give a hand from here so that I do not recycle from the way I fell.
Jester silence.
Whirling dervish taboos hidden in the heart.
There are many details that can be identified and the phone that I had or had my freedom stolen on the day I was born, of course, I called myself, of course, busy ringing, of course, having difficulty.
A date that I can't remember from the war on the Serbian Sea.
Founding of the Republic.
Subway was put into service.
While I am still my soul that says choo choo, like a freight wagon left in the past on the train tracks, the locomotive of life, of course, my name is a stowaway, a station where I brewed at the train station, I presented myself to myself on that silver platter that darkened my soul.
Hoyrat wind did it again.
I am, of course, a clamor in the sky, where I come across myself in a dream segment in which I refer to a wandering love tale, a spiteful demon in my poor heart.
