My world left over from the parceled land of souls and bodies

Emotions and the brain do not coexist. That's why I didn't silence my inner voice just to get the most out of my brain?

My mind is great.

I'm like poison.

But I am so depressed and reluctant to live and I am too tired to love anymore, as if it were not enough that I was hurt and ignored in return.

When I ignored myself for a lifetime and most of all, when I was just bored with myself.

With my arrogant inner voice.

With my innocent love.

You were a port I stopped by on this one-man journey where I was very happy, and while I was in seclusion with my capsized heart and soul, I would not miss you if I were missing from my prayers, what would it be in someone's life...

With my inner voice marking the darkness...

With the sadness on my back, my sweater and the hole in my heart...

My only wish is to write my new tales after a fairy tale that has ended.

Those shadows will still exist, and it is these shadows that keep me standing.

I am a resident of a loveless world because once I was injected with love.

While there are still people who love me and I struggle with myself to love myself again...

who says he loves me...

I do not have such a request from the world without love, as long as the Creator does not withdraw his hand from me.

Neither light nor dark.

I am neither on the ground nor in the sky.

Is death really that simple and fuzzy?

Is this what remains of the parceled land of souls and bodies?

So I start over and turn the hourglass all over again with all my reservations and remaining courage, and yes, even though I know it's a waste of time, isn't it really worth trying again?

There is no wise;

May the sun make promises that have not seen the light of day, in order to sprinkle an amount of water that is effective, clear and clean enough to put the final point in the hearts of people who are offended by all kinds of signs of doomsday, albeit unwillingly, throughout the country.

I've been biting my lips for days. Because every word turns into a curse on the tip of my tongue. I say at least if there is a thunderstorm, if a downpour breaks out.

His heart was my heart of the one I love in dreams

I couldn't let go of his smile

Even when I dreamed, the sadness was chased away

If I say come now, I don't have a tongue

Does he get tired, because I'm on my way

It was so much that I couldn't bear to walk even for me.

Does he get tired, because he loves

I couldn't touch your heart.

If this silence ends, this dirty stickiness ends. But if a flood is too little. Still, there must be something torn and broken. Something that is constantly torn and shattered. The voices are getting less and less, the birds are getting less. Only our horses can hear the sadness now.

Patience, which has been seen as good for humanity, is the guilty and innocent children of the beginning, trying to run a cure rightly or undeservedly in the world of testing and testing.

Isn't the end of everything a handful of earth?

Here is such a time.

Ideas and thoughts that persist in agreeing are pursued one after the other,

times that will be of no use to humanity.

Every word turns into a curse on the tip of my tongue.

In front of the man who will say,

Even if it is a mountain, it cannot stop.