I can never neglect my dreams, and especially when I was the inventor of the love life, I dropped love-laden coins on the slope of the mint, I could die already in the face of love that spread wings to my enthusiasm from the sky.
In captivity for a lifetime.
Courage to love a lifetime.
Far from the voices that cannot be echoed anymore.
A caravan of dreams in which life is spoken of, of course, realities and dreams, spiraling in that black syllable on my lips and in the tender arms of the night, sometimes the facts are tangent and here I tack myself to the chest of the sky ...
It is such an edict that I cannot get enough of writing.
I am the bouncer of your life and your love.
And here I am on the run, flying with my cocoon and butterfly wings in which I have been hiding, I denounce my past with love and scale, but with sorrowful notes, the floating curtain of my inner voice.
The birds that are the faint of the sky hidden in my window are always loyal, and as I open my window, they come running and settle down, it is almost like a verison that lightens the burden on my heart.
Whatever rebellion is the rebellion that escapes me now.
Whatever is real, that keeps my dreams off
And here I take off my hat and greet it with the cross-eyed rabbit, which I take off, and on the other hand, like a very familiar old friend, it also nibbles my pencil like a carrot and I'm falling in love with the climate inside me again.
I am invisible.
I am unknown.
Confused by my temperament.
Embarrassed by my color.
He is a child who is enthusiastic in the virgin plain of love.
What I am not talking about.
I am pursuing my subject, not that I neglected my subject, because nowadays I am very close and fond of my secret subject.
Silk clouds and snow-white love that don't fall from my collar, this is of course the presentation of the universe.
It is not a love that I can describe in a human nature, and it is the very guarantee of feeling away from myself and close to myself with the pain that I sometimes cannot help myself with, and maybe not with my nationality, that I raise the bar like a hidden color and freedom at dawn.
That dreams come back.
It's a dream I saw with my eyes wide open.
It was also possible to make the dreams I had asleep come true, and I fell in love with the climate inside me and the rug under my feet.
My mind, whose tassels are attached to that rug and its fringes, is not actually my feet and my bulleted presence that loses its judgment, nor knocks my troubles with the weight of lead the day.
As much as I move on, it is the same to be standing still, and when it was its inventor, love.
Not powder pink.
Black is not at all.
The essence of the word, longing and hope is perhaps considered impossible, and I start off a person and sign eternity on the road.
What's the big deal?
Or my robe.
What I reproached is the wind and here I finally escaped from my cocoon.
I watch the world not from a bird's eye view, but from a butterfly's eye view, and the cocoon I escaped is now left behind, and I cannot go back and take on my old identity.
I have now chosen to be a butterfly, and even though it fits in a single day, my life could not restrain my enthusiasm and freedom.
My direction is uncertain, at least for a day, I will love you to the fullest and finally be sent off to the cemetery of dead butterflies, but I have already farewelled many people and my auspicious count is of course the smallest and only self-dying prime number that is also a noble being. when a lifetime was constantly turning around and counting all at once and always wanted to embrace the absence of s / it.
Whatever the key point is now.
Certainly while breaking the lock of the locked heart for a day.
I escaped from a world in which I lived and hid without breaking it, and I chose to be the butterfly that will be blessed as my humanity is today and my color is very pink very naive and fragile wings. I could not speak to my love anymore, and I remembered this day to love freely, and I wanted only God to touch my wings that make love with death.
It's a universe I haven't seen but I feel.
Now I am reaping the sadness that I loved more than ever before, but not expecting a response and that I sowed in my dreams, and my death is hours away, and here is how the hourglass is emptying.
While always loyal to my subject.
While always full of longing.
Self-efficacy comes from yesterday.
If it's a steep slope, life is somehow I have stepped on, but I can't reach the top, so I ignored my human identity and imitated my butterfly poems, and here it flies crazy and I love it.
A spiral of emotion that I reign with my soul.
I have always been a porter of feelings.
At last I escaped from myself and I chose the way to be happy with myself without considering a life without myself, and now I have always confronted myself as I step on and now I enjoy the end of myself and being like myself, while being at peace with my conscience, sometimes with the light, I am confused and I only have the peace of holding a mirror inside me. I'm facing the climate inside me more.
The wild heart of sadness.
While I can fall even on the straight road, while a life is the thing of standing, in my showdown with myself, I take refuge in people and blamed myself over and over again, but this time I can love for the first time, my wind and my miserable wings, and if it is a love on the floor, it is the call of the guidance that awaits me when choosing freedom and transcending its inviolability.
We are as fussy as sluggish.
Even though I am white, sometimes it is motley.
I've collected poems and stories by collecting my pompous feelings.
With the embarrassment of being a hidden flower in the earth when I was the star of love, and now I am disconnected from my root, I have run away as a flower, but I will keep my belief that I will keep it hidden until I reach it, and even if death is at its end, I will embrace my enthusiasm and love and finally face myself.
That's why I haven't changed for a lifetime.
Even though I was unhappy, I did not wear masks or play people.
When my poem was love, I danced with impossibility and slapped the child inside me continuously because it was my strength of faith, and I never climbed the Mount Kaf, and even though people occasionally plunged me into the ground, my head was always upright and I was covered with slime, but I did not stain it.
It was a day when I mimicked, a single day.
And here I chose to be a butterfly, I escaped from my cocoon where I had been hiding in a lifetime, and I denounced the love in me to the whole universe.
I was a sparkle, for example.
A squirrel or.
A cute kitten.
And human.
Neither my age nor my mourning could hinder my enthusiasm and love was the best way to sew my rips up.
I was addicted to a color, always pink and embarrassed.
I was addicted to an emotion that I could never fit into the sky in a single syllable, so I could never fit into the sky, and I was a stone out of my bowl that I was a stone of my existence, perhaps my wealthlessness, but also my desolation, with the enthusiasm of the Divine Power, which is the sole owner of my desolation. I raised it, always loving more loving.
I could not even resemble someone, and I never liked it whenever I tried, because it was love that presented me to me, and what makes life and people unique and unique.
Locked safe inside me.
And those locked drawers hidden in my lower memory.
And since the first day I started to write, I have been dealing with opening these locks and I have longed for being able to love more...
Smells in the kitchen - Poetry
The garden gate opened with the familiar creak.
Known and expected footsteps,
he walked the paved road that he knew and missed,
to the kitchen door of the house with cedar garden.
Your lip like a red bud was saying on the radio
A sad voice accompanied him in the kitchen.
The scent spread through the garden,
The beans cooked in the casserole over low heat.
Smells mingled in the kitchen.
The smell of beans
The cinnamon cookie in the oven,
Not necessarily, the smell of longing was mixed.
Voices were emanating from the kitchen window,
Voices were mixed in the cedar house,
Sounds met in the fountain of the pool.
The heartbeats of the waiting are in the kitchen
The whistle of the stew on the stove,
The growl of the tabby on the cedar,
footsteps of the expected on the stone road.
The white tulle blowing from the window,
It carried honeysuckle scent from outside to inside,
He hurled years of desire from the inside to the garden.
It's all dust and smoke.
If a climate is under my feet and a rug is the impression of the climate and I am hidden in its eaves, I constantly change my stripes with that flying carpet and tassels, because I always stay bright with the sun that hits my face and I make me bright.
Formal.
Poetic.
Internal.
Whatever the judgment is judged.
With my color, my banner, my dawn, and the glitz of my feelings, my butterfly wings, which made me devoted and free to love, and my butterfly wings will soon become dust and mingle into eternity, and I will join in eternity with my hope and the butterfly temperament that love aligns with, and eventually I will meet with my Lord.
The pain of love is a lifetime.
Now, thanks to your patience, while love is like a paradise that I will enjoy, while the poem is also the wisdom of the universe and the instinctive love, I finally come to terms with myself and the universe.
