@trixdawson 22 November 2021 more from that month

There's smoke of my fire on me that I rain down as a poem

What dream are you crying out for, and in what breeze is your hijra hidden? You are the few moments of the season that I bid farewell to, you are a flower that I open to death every time I feel cold, and your miserable existence is the meaning of life every time I love. I'm attracted to your smile, I'm not one of those people who play three monkeys with the universe and my desolation between my fingers. My inner voice is singing. After all, I have never benefited from people's lies.

Fortunately, I didn't die. If I knew a blessing, it was always love: oh, my endless love of people. I loved unconditionally, while I was a milestone beyond the age, my love and I fell behind the time that has passed the age. It was my bibliography, my Lord, and my questions that are answered every time I call out to Him. For example, dreams that run to seed. While my hands smell like soil and I am a creation of nature, I will go to the land where I came from. As for the darkness of the life that I know as powder pink, I have just started to understand and I see the universe as bright even at night, after all, there is a magic light inside me that recurs and sometimes shines like a room where I keep the lights off during the daytime, and my cold heart. Every slice of the season is a dilemma for me, and I knit seasons from seasons to seasons in a single day, and even though I know it's not reasonable, I live through how many seasons in a day. I grow and live with my mourning, but I protect my dreams and my age, and sometimes I dry my age.

Some people, such as the wind-up dolls, do not live the love they give rosewood to their language with devotion. I don't have a single feeling that I am a regular in, but I have a great religion that I follow, and here is a paradise where I benefit from pain and increase my patience with a sense of gratitude and built from emotions that are secret in human status. Sometimes when I can't fit inside of me. Sometimes I cross dams like a flooded river, and sometimes I sink my thorns into myself like a desert flower blooming in a barren land. There is no race, neither my feelings nor my pain. I'm hidden in my faith and I pulled the pin of my heart on the first day of love. I am a sun hidden in October and the season of crops. I reap what I sow. Whatever I drink, I overflow. I walk with my anxiety and sometimes I slip and fall. A mise-en-scene love that I respect. If it's a theme, I revive life. If I'm a color I love both black and white I have smiles that I cover up, hidden in a mikado garbage accompanied by dreams, my edict is inside me, its strings are the wild horses outside of loneliness. I am a prayer suspended in purgatory, a deadly mystery on my lips. The wind returning from the door I left open, not the one I didn't open, and the thousands of pains that beat and move inside. I did not open my eyes after I was born and my father put my name and all my loved ones who tremble to never fade. I have a heart with which I am cross-legged, and my still incomprehensible inner voice and the rebellion I suppressed. No doubt I'll write that one sentence on the tombstone: I was never understood, however, how I loved you. The beauty of being one and my difference when a western person is actually absent from a kid playing leapfrog. The hook I hung on, the headman of love and the memorandum of love are hidden inside me, maybe a dream butterfly that does not come out of my secret, my life is not a day after all, my life and its life is not only a day's life, but the smoke of the fire on me, where my poems are only painful and raining down as poetry, of course, that unfading torch inside me.

Every night I delay the day. All the unspeakable sentences that I put in the tambourine. I am addicted to life and seasons. When I went into a trance, every moonlight, every hungover, every pain and agony of yesterday is yesterday. The slippery shadows, on the other hand, I run away from. While my love was the water of life on the ground where I melted like a snowman and my nose fell, but I was born in the winter sun, following the g/trace of a flower where the snow drips, my love, of course, is the flower garden inside me, a frequenter of those I can't get enough of opening, come see that the wind that I am being witnessed and the only wish of my dreams that I am the fugitive, while your love is gone growing up. I wrote with insistence. I am constantly burning.