My life spent in the nooks has a smile that I dedicate poems to

My dreams got cramped.

For a lifetime I did not give a damn about the words that were steaming on my stove.

Snow was falling on my being, locked and clenched in silence. The laments I lit had no limits.

I ordered a smile to the universe and it was delivered to my door The cargo was not to open the inside, maybe I should have thrown away all my feelings and the package that came, after all, my soul, the world of abandonment was a garbage house.

I wore mush.

I had lost the secret of evacuated happiness, and there was a road before me waiting for me to lay my head.

It was a sadness between bread and mine, the peace hidden in the dreams of March, perhaps the most I desire, and I fled back when I looked in the mirror and saw you.

You were everywhere.

I was everywhere.

I was struck again and again by every oath, and the lineage of people for whom I shed tears.

Sometimes I was damp.

Sometimes sluggish and incomplete!

I needed to be witty again, but I was neither able to give a speech nor was I speaking to my speech.

A life with the consistency of sponge cake and the oil hidden in it smeared everywhere, obviously I couldn't keep its consistency and I was experiencing many ebbs and flows.

I was trapped in the low voice of the wind.

I lost the enthusiasm of colors.

I did not inform that I was lost, maybe it was the restlessness that escaped me, but I was still somehow able to feel peace.

Maybe that was the only thing I had accomplished, but I was dreaming of a life purpose that ended quickly and getting lost in the streets of the sooty city many times and suddenly finding myself.

I was not silent.

It's not a hush-hush discourse at all.

I broke my silence, every time I took a pen in my hand, I was sometimes flying as the wind, and sometimes I was snowing in the skies of Istanbul and falling on old and grieving hearts.

Snowflakes traveling to the ground without touching each other without harming and the wheels inside me:

I was neither grinding nor grinding; in fact, everything and everyone was a deception.

I was flying with the wind.

How would I align the words if the sadness had no free existence, and it was obvious that I was fighting with only one rifle in my life, when I was declaring myself, and with the boundless enthusiasm of the tears flowing from my eyes, the sky was the sea and the sky was screaming, thanks to the tears on my body.

My flaming smile, which I dedicate poems to the modest joints of the life spent in the nooks, however, was a tacky smile, my tears triggered by the sky.

I love and suffer with stability.

If there is a knot at the end of the ordeal, the cellar in which I hide in longing, and a relative bondage, is my patched heart, where love never stitches.

Your kind soul is my soul.

Lost smiles…

Life, on the other hand, is that blind bullet that bounces inside me, that blind song, sometimes like the dreams put on my lips, the joy of my loneliness that grows every time I kiss it and the presentation of death in my one-man grave, oh, that life rasp, where I sometimes break the steering wheel.

It's the season I enjoy.

The moth that escaped into me.

I am in the presence of the Lord, and my melancholy disposition I breathe love as much as I breathe, and the gills of which I actually hide in the wind.

Entrusted to your dreams is loneliness and an enthusiasm for love as I have never fallen, shedding light on my loneliness.

It must be hide, this is nothingness and the spirit of the secluded seclusion.

The possibility of living in the clutches of a dream that I escaped and was chased.

My eyes are a globe: my existence, which the earth that I shoveled is considered to be contradictory, and sometimes I have dreams that run into seeds, and sometimes the silence that I follow in the back rows and my confidant with that Divine Recitation, my self, protected and spared by the Lord, is sometimes on a leash in my dreams, sometimes as I climb into relative mountains.

A madrasa is hidden inside me.

An unpleasant rhetoric follows me.

What is the painful season in the eyes of a delusional life?

Crops inside me, March wind outside me...