I'm still searching for myself that doesn't end

My dreams, I say, my dreams.

Uninterrupted and unintentional.

I define the season, I define every new day as a day, I expect the season, actually intertwined time and emotions and negative positive comments, from wise men and women, and while I live on the branches and streets where I have settled with my heart, the pavement sparrow, while I live on the branches and streets where I have settled with my heart, I will not change the peace at home for anything, of course, what is considered peace is sometimes sadness, sometimes sadness I added the words patched to the earth in the bundle.

Absolute absolute.

Sometimes a riot.

In order to absorb all the beauties with my faith in spite of the night shadows that make the revolution, and those who live indifferent to the cruel, demon and hypocrite I have reported...

I'm holding my breath.

I wasted my breath in vain...

The ones that I started to fight with my soul when I was little and that fell out of my feet and sometimes from my hands because of the loneliness between the fingers...

The floor I slip on.

The grace of the world where I slipped.

The life leading to and here is the last bullet left in my gun that I hid in poetry...

If I'm a poem, your images of law enforcement.

If I am a word, or a hollow lover, as long as my poems bless me, my violated borders, which I have not neglected to say.

The confluenced universe and the master of my heart, the words and the crease in my soul, the floor where I felt the need to iron a text or poem that I started to write while loving and living improvisationally, and hanging on the blank white page that crumpled uninterruptedly without counting the age I spilled.

Murdered souls.

The dome of heaven where I ascended, finally I reached my Lord.

Maybe even the hallmark of truth and the deadlock that pops up every time I gain awareness.

The sky, whose clasp was broken, fell to the very core of the earth as I fell, and every time the seed cracked, the neighbor woman maybe my share of the boiling gossip cauldron...

Even if I don't pay, it's bad.

Even though the stars are pouring out of my flannel nightgown.

And while my stricken heart has taken over the story.

While it is the only stain on the wall that left its mark on the day when I was broke and every time I hung my face when I was taken, it is the mechanism of my inner self where I stand up like a pen that notches the wall while there is a trace of my hand, sometimes I shrink, sometimes I resist, and sometimes I coincide with a pause period.

The face measurement is hand sized.

The heart is like the world.

The person I overestimate is the one who made me hostile to me.

The person who is good for my heart is the demon who suddenly changes my chemistry and sometimes repels a lot of hate to those who are in danger of being poisoned by the overdose of love.

When I was slaughtered and I thought that I had spread it all over my life and actually tortured myself.

Like an unread novel, I sometimes raise a cauldron.

Sometimes, like an unending novel, I count where I am in summer and summer, and when it is the diary of the climate, after a very cold day, I struggle in the morning with the longing for the April sun.

The ones that drip from the night and the words that hit the shore of the heart, maybe like a flower that suddenly fades in the majesty of feelings, the Creator, which I wish to give time until I write the most appropriate text to be written on the tombstone, and in any case, is it because of the end of what I have to say? my search for myself, which still does not end while being caught and flying.