I'm the mafia of my feelings and my share of under the stairs sadness

Every poem has its own loneliness.

I write poetry to deal with all this confusion.

Poetry is a good companion for a nomadic person like me. Even if you go to the bottom of the seven floors of the earth or go up to the seven floors of the sky, it will come with you. Poetry is an impossible thing, impossible, helpless. I feel this, I always find my own despair in him.

A mountain with a high altitude hidden inside me, while it is the medicine of the night when the pain cuts off. Sometimes I'm inside where I'm stuck, usually I'm closed.

Is it your words or thousands of advices that do not go unheeded? I am in solitary confinement, after all, I am in solitary confinement to my words that have a headache or cramp that neither my brain nor my stomach accept.

My new generation ruler in sadness.

I divided the day and the life, syllable syllable.

Sometimes, a constant chaos, obviously happiness is also a rumor.

There are many things that I am a prisoner of, many people.

I sew my collar with regret, because I am grieving, I still do not say a word to the servant of a God.

It turns out that my head was bald and it wasn't enough for those who ate my head, almost as if a huge plate of chops haunted my existence.

My feelings are all cold.

I couldn't tie his head, whatever your day will be.

It's almost like the solution hidden in the night, and here I am, a mafia of emotions, and my share of sadness under the stairs is not less than ice.

I broke my wrist twice in the same place, and I broke my head just so that my loved ones would not be upset, but as if my brain cells did not rebel, I am defending people's desk and plastering my skull with all my unused neurons. I'm running around in the lost world, this feeling is mine, that feeling is yours.

My cell is very airy, of course, it is a glass mansion hidden in the memory called the brain, and at the end of the day, I rush to the attic of my brain and turn off the lights and sew my mouth and rewrite my story again, perhaps knowing that no one cares, maybe I am telling the story.

It was a rough wind that had just turned the house upside down.

Moreover, there are no people on our lower floor, nor on our upper floor, where super-ego words are almost disqualified and I am doing it so that my hope will rise again.

Of course, they can say a lot. It wasn't enough.

What remained unchanged?

My messy soul and my shabby heart, of course.

If it's easy, get out of the way, but I jump into the pool called the heart, and my analytical intelligence, which has successfully solved all pool problems, is not enough to solve daily and life-long problems.

The most insoluble is of course me.

I feel like I should go but I can't.

I can't go, I feel like I'm going to escape from myself from time to time, but the guard at the door does not give the right of way, moreover, I am sentenced to additional solitary confinement and I am so happy that I am not included in the crooked order, so sad, maybe I am in my clumsiest period and the places I hit have no limits, so I constantly multiply the numbers to the solution. while reaching…

No, the door is not knocking.

Nor is time running out.

I am on the threshold of an unending tension and extreme anxiety, and I scratch as I scratch my mind. After giving way to my soul, this time I do therapy for my pain and I sit in the therapist's chair myself and revive my soul with a so-called behavioral approach and systematic desensitization method.

While wanting to destroy as much.