Let it be a smile hidden in the depths, where colors emerge, the love that captivates my heart, giving it to the shadows full of envy.
From the universe while wishing for a reasonable sun in every season.
Happiness is hidden even in every sadness.
The lucky number is thirteen.
Even though my color is sad and pale, my dreams are running on a high mountain, and every smile I order from the dream market is delivered to my address.
I surrendered yesterday and I didn't know that I was longing.
Today, however, I am the commanding officer of my heart and embraced all the imperatives at once.
What a broken wheel.
Nor am I attached to yesterday.
Sometimes dreams on the pedals, sometimes a sadness that is far more than what I counted on, maybe more than I realized, and here I seem to smile a little, and don't look at the wetness of my eyes.
It is not enough to live without a sound.
When I make a sound, I am always pushed back.
I don't even make a sound when I love as much as I love, when I have someone in my heart, and this feeling is not just about love.
Thousands of emotions playing under the roof of my heart and believe me, all these I feel without exaggeration and I can love and own the whole universe with a total enthusiasm, but with this induction, I finally reached myself and I no longer call myself while loving myself:
"Hey, you pink dream girl, don't wait."
I break the steering wheel once and here I am in a deserted street without causing a chain accident, and this time I catch my eye on paper collectors and since I did not greet anyone during the day or I could not say a single word that came to my mind, I opened the door and skipped next to my heart, children:
''Are you hungry?''
Question to ask?
Then I stuff my remaining money in their pockets and say "take care of yourself" and walk away with peace of mind.
He doesn't give up his good temper, and I keep their phones ringing incessantly, whoever is on my phone, and of course, because I can't get an answer, I shed tears for a world full of people that I can't share my tears and love for.
The burning gas lamp comes to my mind, which I vaguely remember on fi.
I remember our stove burning in the living room in winter, when we gathered at the table as a family and had breakfast with toast.
And whatever is present in my day.
The pain and sadness of the silence descends on me and I can't do anything more than I can love, while my head falls to my side while talking to myself in the dark and poking myself on my shoulder, of course, I kill the day and emulate a new day and I sit on my chair with the peace and hope of being able to write while living the stress of the whole day inside me. I wipe off the ink in my veins and lie down on the white and clean page.
I still love my heart as an uncontaminated one.
Maybe people are too afraid of love and attention.
The river of love that flows into me like love pollutes, and sometimes the waterfall of my crying heart and my being, not that I'm untouchable, but whoever I love without touching it with my existence.
The leftovers of yesterday are always in the same place.
The living dead, increasing in number by the day.
Whoever I love is at work somewhere, and I don't care, and I blame myself for a lifetime:
It's that mysterious code that I blame only myself for, like it's always my fault that I love them and I don't get anything back, and here's the mysterious code I finally discovered.
I do not keep up with the times, nor do I keep the shadows harmless and innocent.
As my boat of warmth and hope began to slowly take off, and my heart was pumping ink mixed with love, not blood...
Wherever everyone is present before me, and the one I naively love.
A power hidden in my memory, that I ran to my Lord.
I don't care about tomorrow anymore, after all, while I left everything as it is, while I was doing my best, and I finally made progress with myself in order to survive by expending more power than anyone else.
Everyone and every emotion I encounter during the day is the voices coming from the street over the top of the door, and I open the curtain and look outside in the dark and frosty of the night, a few children filling the breadbasket and the ones whose names are on the paper collector, or what some people despise and describe as a street kid or a vagrant.
While someone is always accusing each other with some nasty adjectives and I've already had my share of it.
Then the whisper I heard and the enthusiasm coming from the outside, although I am alone and there is no one around, but I still hear that voice:
Hey, don't wait. Sit down and complete your writing.
Is it possible for me to go against it while I am grateful to everyone for everything that is considered a lifetime defeat.
Otherwise, how could I love myself and life?
