My real memory is the library of my mind, I reach out my hand

My existence is not stolen!

The ignorance of that divine void, and here is the loneliness on its bed, handfuls of stars are hidden in my hands, the scent of lavender, the delicate texture of love, and the survivability of my sadness, which I have pinpointed, are my dreams.

I'm not imaginary.

Whatever my real memory is, on the dusty shelves of the library of my mind, I stretch out my hand and my heart, hidden in the order of the pen set on a gold tray, where the life that I do not object to coincides with gigantic gaps and here are the syllables that came out of my heart.

My face is hidden in the patchwork of night.

The cries of my chin and pen that I hold...

There are stories that I have imitated, recorded in my past and hidden in my coffee cup, forgotten in my coffee cup, and paper boats that I see in my fortune, slowly swaying in a river in the light of my mind.

I am silent.

Simple.

Your kind.

It's the Lord's offering far beyond what I'm performing.

Cluster willow.

Oleander flowers.

The prose of being a flower and the lofty mountains are on the slopes of my mind.

I am village.

I am a peasant.

I am city.

I am a forgotten spark in the crowd of the city and a fire growing inside of me, my sweet words I soaked in pain with the taste of plain coffee, my poems in the eyes of the images.

The only Power that dominates.

The demon that doesn't fall for people's frail assets.

The poems that are currently in series with the sigh of the oppressed are the keepers of the night, whose forked voice is beating on the shores while the wind and rough waves are beating in the climate of the heart.

My starry eyes.

The non-flowing tear of the fountain whose water has dried up.

The climates, the grains, the hearts, the humidity, the seasons in vain.

I'm breaking the silence.

People are silent.

I'm testing the sounds.

Most of the people have passed out.

I'm a silent discourse, and the shadows prevailing in the universe in his eyes and how dominant my inner voice is as much as I'm declaring, but I don't give up.

Hidden in the sound of a siren making a hush.

Nurse giving a hush sign.

My life in school corridors.

I am a student in one class and I teach in another class, and my students listen with great interest.

I am telling because I am a hardworking student and my teacher listens with all his heart.

Do I have to be a student or a teacher in order to be understood or explained?

I've been writing nonstop for ten years.

My words are a part of me.

I'm reading, what do I read for a lifetime besides what I haven't read?

What is my writing next to the thousands of stories and poems waiting to be written?

Destroying my loneliness.

I am a little bird who has just learned to fly and the memorandum given by the glorious sky and here I am landing on a broken branch.

I'm singing.

They don't sound.

I like.

They don't fall off.

The darkness that advises me to be silent, I am the light.

While the little owl is jealous of my loneliness, I have not been separated from my flock.

The universe and God I listen to.

It is a judgment given suddenly that I am at peace, and I am innocent and oppressed.

The crammed earth.

The cruel crow, who is announcing his anger, and the loud crow who advises me to keep quiet.

My nightingale, I am in love with a rose.

My rose is after the nightingale.

My flower.

Bud.

My snowdrop is buzzing when it's cold.

My blooming spring.

What I can't see until I open my eyes and that's where my heart eye comes into play.

I am the season of the seasons, the thousands of seasons hidden inside me.

I am a prisoner of love, the kindness of life, the blessings of yesterday, the blessings of today, I am full of tomorrow's and ripe ears, and my neck is thinner than hair, only from the Lord's presence.

A fury: that I should be silent.

A longing: the one that breaks the silence of a lifetime.

I do not speak: the pen writes.

I respect the universe with my silence and my heart is fidgeting.

My pen, which comes into play due to my silence, and here are the angels covering me, and even if I sleep, the pen does not sleep.

Even if I comply, order does not suit me.

If my silence is a pen for life, the wind of the universe, even if I remain silent...