The loneliness of every thought and every fall is hidden in itself and in wandering hearts, it is the sum of the father's love and inner pain of daughters. After your father's departure, a pair of eyes that look at you inevitably decreases.
I'm out of bland feelings.
I took advantage of the loss called sadness, which I am equivalent to, and stitched the ripped parts of my heart with sentences and poems.
There are not many details about yesterday.
What I have lived and experienced throughout the painting.
An inexhaustible longing, perhaps, the beloved poet's berry tree and a father motif woven with sighs, and the one that blows like a leaf in climates where fate reaps sorrow on their limp feet and sometimes writes poems about longing and the subject of which is the father.
I came from happy times to my father.
I also accepted the unhappiness: both while you were there and after your departure, and the rest of them left as they came, and some migrated before they came.
I struggle with my feelings that are the product of famine and longing for my father, and sometimes I don't wonder if I come and sleep in your bosom, we will fit into that tiny grave, and at least my father will tell you everything that happened after you left.
Destiny does not command this yet, and while I can even love and accept my grief, I do not understand people's lack of love.
I will neither report my day nor tell you from the beginning what I kept hidden in yesterday, but there is a lot I need to tell you, when I am convinced that it is known to you, of course, I live and love and write with my inner voice, while the unceasing waterfall inside me sometimes laments and sometimes I just patiently wait for the order in its superstition.
Sadness is a tree from the creek.
If the father is the foundation of the family, of course, I will emphasize once again how special mothers are.
It doesn't work, my father: no matter what I say, even as I am held responsible for what I did not say, my loneliness is increasing day by day, so my loneliness is so crowded and I can't easily put my stampede into words.
After his departure, a lot of water has flowed, even the era has come to an end, and they say it's the millennium age and devour the rest of people's minds with a craze of technology and lovelessness.
It's fine if it's the first time something happens.
If that thing happens every time, it's normal.
It's bad if it's not the first time
It's a disaster if that thing never happens.
It's good if you're being someone's thing
It's bad if you're doing everything
No one wants to lose everything
Can not take the risk.
I don't talk anymore about love and being loved.
You said very little, but it showed me that you love me very much, life and although I often refer to your protective existence, thank God I don't look like anyone else.
Everyone nowadays is decent and honest and loving and how they show their insides in seconds.
Of course, every sheep is hanged by its own leg, but if they don't speak up.
I think the roads I walked for hours are a thing of the past, but I still walk whenever I get the chance and how did you get mad at me when you were at university:
You didn't witness my four sleepless years, and you couldn't even witness that I finished my school with a degree, and I ended my professional life abruptly with such unsuccessful breakthroughs. I chose the profession you wanted and then I fell in love with your profession.
Am I a teacher?
Or is he still a student with a criminal record?
Am I your rose girl, or am I subjected to the words of the ignorant and dipped my thorns into myself and the black shadows?
Did I please you, my father?
I'm never sure about that, especially since I couldn't make anyone happy after you. I kept my eyes on the top while climbing the career ladder, but my fall was sudden and I fell into a very deep pit, then again and again.
Thankfully, I managed to get up from where I fell and walk.
No one should think that I will fall again, I don't expect anything from anyone anymore, and after getting hit by people one after another, I realized who my real friend is.
Since the first day I believed, I knew myself and you were the one who taught me to love, my father and my mother, did I turn the potential in me into kinetic?
What happened after all?
Of course I exploded and I'm constantly drawing zigzags in my factory settings, and while it's love, it's my disposition, my climate, and my indispensable.
There were many times when I went into details because I had nothing to hide, I don't regret a little now, maybe I should have never started writing, and the pen has entered my blood so much that, of course, literature, which took all my poison and turned my defeats into victory, is now a lot of things I have solved thanks to my only pen and pen. You know, I've become so entangled, so I'm building castles out of pencils with the happiness and delight of being able to fit a huge universe inside me in a spiral of emotion that I'm aiming for, and thanks to my inner world, I am now a traveler to heaven.
I am indebted to those who inflicted the torment of hell, so they showed me what is what, that huge window I opened to my heart with my life and my broken pieces.
The heart eye would be an accurate description, and I've had this feeling over the past few years.
Happiness and hope hidden in my sadness frame.
You know, there is no escape from the universe full of hijab, and here is my adventure of writing accompanied by my imagination, my father, of course, I will not be able to pass without mentioning my longing for your literary identity.
Words are bottomless, my father.
I'm bottomless too, and here's a dream world I'm matched with.
I don't have any feelings of adulthood, and at least I fell from the cliff where I was pushed into the universe while I was embracing with an unending love for people, that piece of branch that saved me from falling at the last moment, of course, I ran back and came to the surface as I fell with my pen.
It is very possible to fall again, so my pen is my savior and I want to share that treasure hidden inside me somehow and only to tell and write.
My color is very variable: first of all, white and pink, a world that sometimes darkens, and my Lord, who flounders the mud and blue that I sometimes get stuck in the broken wheel of sadness, where I live and write with the white of my face, and I run to hope.
Today was father's day, it was my birthday last week, and I can't help but emphasize my privilege, and I still bleed as much as I manage to be one with people and my heart is bleeding and I am dressing with words, of course, my only cure is prayers and hope.
Being aware of the fact that it is a miracle that I am writing my one-inch-long feelings for you, of course, when everything is at rest, I congratulate my father's day and send all my prayers to you and my father.