My dreams are exhausted by the delusional existence of those flamingos.
A life that fits into a sequence is actually the groan of the past hidden in the balance of my life, which corresponds to two centuries.
I keep watch at the beginning of the line.
I am far away from life and I am consoled by my loneliness, I am a systematic collapse and sigh.
I have possessive attachments that ignite, and I bid farewell to the truth with the scientific circumcised hidden in dreams.
I am like a dormitory for sale: I am divided as I am divided by the rooms of my inner dormitory where migratory birds are guests, and the possibility of being a dead love, I am divided by brackets and I refuse to be a harmonious person to the familiar society.
Whatever is unknown is stacked in me.
Maybe my well-known square root, after all, my life was entwined with numbers.
Or, a gold bar in a bank vault.
Or I've already refused to be an ordinary color in the groan of the rainbow shrouded in dreams I nestled in.
I am like a native of Africa, ravaged by darkness and playing water and texture in the remaining known hemisphere of light. My tightly braided hair, my tears that I sometimes do not dry, and my happiness when its roots are dry, bounces from one letter to another in an abstract alphabet and I manage life, whereas my ID number says I substitute it.
There are flamingos for sale in the dream market, and as the pain in its consistency vomits its fire, maybe like a volcano, I am the past of the blessed city in doubt, and I set out to be a humorous poem in the dark of night.
I have forgotten and put to sleep utopias and mother-of-pearl inlaid loneliness, sometimes pouting, sometimes bouncing, maybe dangling eye bags of your curse.
I came and landed on the back of the darkness in order to iron my feelings in the confluence of my inner self, I was more than a common wind, the wrinkled face of the past and my beloved horse, where I blew like a storm on the barren roads of love.
I swept away my shadow and came again, my dear, perched on his huge heart and I know that he no longer spares a room for me, while I suffer in his heart and I still couldn't get rid of the wrinkles of my feelings while ironing the angles of my stubbornness.
At the end of the rustling sound of the wind and the day I said hello to October...
Look, look how I huddled in your arms, where my temple is covered with mourning, I ignited the fire from the sparks of the heart, and I pour couplets on the fire so that this pain gets bigger.
I don't have stereotypical words.
And I'm running from one boulevard to the other in order to protect the plate of images and words, lots of sauce, lots of hot and as much love as I spoon on the floor table that I clean and sweep.
I can say thousands of sentences at the same time, of course, I won't explode and pass away, what do you know from this false world?
How many doses are sublingual of the pain I feel, of course, I know as much love and love as I cherish, now more than the pain I will suffer in return awaits me in the new day.
If I wake up in the day, when I squeeze the night and drip poems like lemons, I grow mimosas on my tear and tear-filled eyes, in fact, I know that this garden of paradise, which I have been chasing after smelling like a clove-scented essence, is far beyond my imagination.
The long and narrow corridors of my heart.
I get lost in the freshness of my mind and become a guest of an endless sea.
I touch the keys of the piano in order to make a wound hidden on the left suitable for solfege, and I find solace in the dying soul of the piano by matching the ivory keys.
I have no body.
My mind is extraordinary.
A wise wind and catching birds.
I protest nature and I approach with a supernatural power to the pier of my heart.
I leave my shoes on the wild shadows and I build walls from my secrets and in the spiral of the love city I turn yellow and fade at sunset, after all, people get used to the soil after I die.
How true it is that I have died many times and not been a peaceful dead.
It is obvious as the day I was born many times, but it is a fact that I cannot deny that I cannot see the daylight.
Bad apples in my pockets.
The walnuts are bigger than my head, sometimes I turn into a squirrel, and sometimes I share with a toothy rabbit.
There's no setting for the weather either.
I reveal the winter sun. On the first night of October, I hold a mirror to the tired stars, and when I don't know what I'm falling for, I become a flower and bloom in the rose garden, and suddenly I come across a star in the sky.
Since I am both my rose and my star, and I am going to find happiness and peace at work, I push my heart to the farthest corner with the chaos I fell into.
The coefficient of love is the longing I know.
Maybe it's a big lie to my fellow citizens, that I don't miss but envy...
Whoever is flirting with the soul of another with false words of love, and I am unable to even say that I love in the zone of respect and love, I love and die for love and the prophetic child inside me that I preserve, and he knows that my pain grows day by day.
Both my pain is growing and the love hidden inside me.
And I make it bigger in my eyes, I'm in love with someone, actually I'm running away from the existence of love and I live alone.
Refused heart.
And I'm tired of loving
I dream of seeing myself in a woman that I try to say but hold back and catch my eye, whereas a child is just like a picture hidden in the handle of a bag with my heart or a symbol and I'm getting away from the eye and suffering more than I can afford.
In a geography where I was exiled…
On the north east of the love I crawl.
The syllable that I was blown away and I made my defense and disappeared.
Just like I never existed, with my absence, if life is going to be valuable, I'm leaving, I'm leaving without looking back, both from myself and from love.
I love with my tactless heart and am devastated and I live alone. I live the love of myself and the pain that I have experienced. I also touch the people around me and the immunity of unhappiness, I just touch the wound inside me and pour alcohol on it so that my pain dies and love is the feeling with the highest destructive power.
While putting into words more than what I love...
Of course, the regret and the threshold of pain in me and I love to death, I plant candles and make vows to the love of one person, which I have written while it is also a memory of my deceased existence, and since my pen and castle fell, my pen also gives birth to pain and I run not to the rising sun, but to the darkness that calls me. While unhappy and in love like never before…
