I named everything.
I end my life by telling
I don't know how else to end a life
I drew a flower on my palm tonight
I used glittery nail polishes because I was bored with loneliness.
Now my nails are like a sketch
A gilded night.
The equivalent of dreams is a song addicted to love, in which the poet's eyes rebelled, sometimes in the dark of the night.
Seasons are sometimes heartbreaking:
Like a scratched green olive
Words are the regulars of the battered heart.
And so many stalactites sinking into it
It's like a riddle enjoying the intricate sadness.
Accompanied by the twinkling stars
Your overcoat is blue, of course, of the night
A ragged creature waltzing with love in ember syllables
His desire to touch the sky
at the beginning of the night
A respectable breeze whistles the heart
Sometimes he chases happiness
It's like a preface before the season he missed.
What are all the books he swallowed?
That expedition inside after unspoken
As you flee from the shadows
Here is the dawn after the sadness that he was caught.
I'm a temperate climate and I'm buttoning up time, feeding my tired soul with the fallout from my sometimes ripped heart.
Your kind is my shadow.
And of course, I have a pompous solitude, of course, when my temple is in the course of the unknown, most of all when it was my yesterday, in my smoking eye.
Is your life on the counter?
Is it your love?
Do you know your whirling dervish?
I just weave and read, and I find peace every time I read it.
Yesterday and the day before, I always read the words that stood in my inner navigation, took my hand in hand and suddenly came to myself with a whisper.
My hand is the one who always holds a pen.
My heart is for people who love without hesitation.
I was caught in a majestic downpour. One time, I fell in the skin of the night and jumped from my dream slide to an almost invisible ground above.
People were competent, but I was just literate and I did not know that this love of writing that I fell into would beat me many times and lay me down like a wet carpet.
I was banned for a lifetime of happiness and even if I was happy in my own way, they stole my dreams and one day I realized that I was actually messing up my words with my loneliness.
Autumn of the seasons.
It's like October, and it's like yesterday, and I broke the devil's leg and I realized what a virtue reading is, that I needed to tell more people more.
As a matter of fact, I was a sentence, and it is unknown that I was on the gilded road of life as a rose attached to the tail of a flashing star.
That clown inside of me.
A prison I can't escape from.
Even though I lived well enough, there was nothing worse than me.
My crippled dreams, my clown dead soul, and a dream world that I cross-legged, and my rich inner world, which I know is the failure of daydreaming since I was four years old, whereas I have been burned like an Indian poor and, like a hearth where poor words are spread and cooked with the taste of rusk, I actually try to become the richest person in the world I opened wings.
My wealth is necessarily my fondness for love.
All the places and people I've visited.
I also vouch for the fact that I survived mostly with the power of faith.
A life hidden inside me when a road I drifted on was the unknown that I lost myself at the end of a side road that I sometimes deviated from.
Of course, my slogan was not to be a product of life, and just as I was a child of summer, come and go, the rain that I was addicted to and the syllable that I washed a drop in the eye of the rain, and many codes and riddles hidden inside me that I reported.
Upload.
My obligation and also.
And the world that I respect most is me, a bomb whose pin has already been pulled, always detonating on myself and being miserably forgotten in a corner while hope is its messenger.
Before the unknown.
After knowing.
Sometimes I was slaughtered in a pitch-black darkness, but it was the darkness that regenerates, of course, the redemption of pain, and the herald that I will stand on end, although sometimes the weapon backfires.
A rhyme.
One rank.
An epaulette.
A badge.
Countless business cards prepared to be printed on my name and here are the world's blessings that I pushed with the back of my hand, after all, I was your search for the wheel.
I'm sharp with my sadness.
My enthusiasm is contagious.
Sometimes the fading focus of your joy.
I know it's a virtue to apologize every time I make a mistake, as much as I sometimes walk around with a bunch of willows but never lower my head.
I escaped from the desolate syllables of the season and came before you.
What is it that loneliness hits the bar, and besides, I am as happy and crowded as I love and write.
After all, your love of publication and rush has faded away. It is the magic of writing while living and loving in the eyes of today's people and at work that blinds my eyes.
Without landing at night.
Regardless of your loneliness.
I laid my heart out with words.
What I am dealing with is actually myself and my great Lord, and the fire inside me grows as I weave and touch.
To feel a little bit of peace and to be meaning, to make sense and also.
It's the climate inside me that I'm rubbing against.
It's just me and my yesterday that I'm teasing.
Many feelings and syllables from the heart.
From the beginning of the night when I showered confetti on the table without leaking, and that green sprout that gives head.
An order that I do not obey is that I obey the rules and orders, but at a certain point I affirm that I am different.
Everything that is known.
The fault line, of course, is the universe's self, a calm heart, and the one that makes sense of meaninglessness and even silence.
My heart has no pan.
The cage I'm stuck in has no door.
While sleeping in a shroud is the summary of being white and the meaning of innocence, which sometimes triggers my pain, it is the enthusiasm, peace and excitement of being one in my word.
I'm after a season that will rival my sadness, and the soil full of earth that I have dug, of course I shoveled with a pen, watered with my love, I took advantage of my age and living in the way of God, while the peace and enslavement of writing while I was imitating the words nested in languages and actually speaking in the language of love, maybe the migration of my whole life. waiting.
Living without exaggeration.
To love from the inside.
Even in the autumn, I know that in the universe where I make the sun rise and prepare for the dawn by being lost in the skin of the night, and I feel like I have to feed all the birds, while I live for the sake of God, as well as live for the sake of God, I know life to a bit of heaven, at least in the universe where I circumambulate with my soul and heart for a few few hours. What it is to stay, and here is the emergency landing door of my soul, the castle door opened by the pen, and please no one see it too much for me.
