For a while, I wrote as if I were chatting, I did not see when I looked, I was forgotten when I envied, I cried when I laughed. When I said don't cry, it was from the real one.
Let's say in a movie, the atmosphere of a hospital room, whose fakes were obviously shot with pink shutters, in a film, an old face with wrinkles converging and wondering where to go, each of these things made me emotional.
Maybe at that moment, the person or people next to me who had the same course might have made the questions such as what happened, what was he going to cry about, or I wonder if I was an emotionless person, and they might have fallen into other questions without waiting for an answer within seconds. I was not at all interested in them.
As I said, there was no purpose other than to declare that my love of writing is my only love and to put our rings on our fingers, which read "Happiness with jokes". The idea of my request had as much coherent logic as possible.
With a stance against the separate writing of the suffix,
A little history, a little philosophy, and whatever belongs to man,
I write love for all of them.
I am sadness with blood in my palms,
I am the exile from the palace.
I who are in secret, in a sentence orgy
Winter whiteness in my temples.
It is such a way that
No end, no head, no body
From ancient books to destroyed cities
It stretches out and goes, some think it is a fairy tale, some are a dream.
O questioner in question,
Write me in red ink on the right
I'm on the sofa in the way of love.
And every night I'm in a knot
Your secret as you reach for your password
Everything is gray
I didn't get tired of decrypting, he didn't get tired of being encrypted.
Maybe you
You like to be a secret,
The answers are hidden in you, you in the night,
On the other hand, the frost stole my hope, my mind was weaned.
Understand me,
I've been a refugee to you since my first womb days.
You are far away, hidden in the unknown.
everything is flowing
Silent, breathless and colorless.
The city is flowing, the river is flowing, time is running
Shaking, my hope remains helpless.
Look, don't you see
Sin and goodness in scales,
Love and fruit stand in place,
Cem sultan on one side, the thing hanging around his neck on the other.
My hyacinth, my daffodil, my paradise flower
Where are you,
Where.
In the following lines that I have come to, I have put the grammar rules that serve the past tense in my closet. Indeed, if there are any dear readers who dream of a government office, a room with plenty of office, and a human-sized iron closet that creaks open, some rusted, I'm worried for them.
The dream should not go beyond a page. I see that a few dreamers like me seem to fly out of joy even if someone says long life. This is not true, my friends, it is not appropriate for me to remind you of these things, saying that these people broke your heart rudely and mercilessly.
Also, for years, I have parted ways with many writers-readers and literate writers who have encouraged me by saying, "There is a light, please write, you do not write, your name is worthy of nothingness." This ambiguous expression has created a situation where no one will visit me and I have to wait for a long time as if a holy book is going to come down. I was beginning to pretend to be someone who played poker without knowing it, in an atmosphere of internal chaos that seemed disastrous for a writer.
I do not see writing as a job or as a tool that comes from a level that I will rise to the top and reach as time goes on. In short, writing is what happens when I stop crying. I hope that the next reader will read this knowingly.
I would like to thank the ancient cave painters, who first invented this act of writing, which took me away from my troubles for a bit, although from the next generation, but especially to the ancients, who were looking for a natural way to express their feelings like me before.
I'm out of writing now.
I am good.
