Don't forget to paint my dreams and then pull the curtain. At least not to witness the death of the pink, and sweep the bottom of the wall that I have taken sides with with my desolation. After I have gone and bury all my words and my pen, hide from tomorrow that I correspond to the soul and lovelessness of the people who burst like balloons when I have said the deepest.
What I concealed, I should have known that perhaps the sadness haunted by the rips of my wound would not be worth the price I paid, and not on which shoulder I was carrying, but on which feet I was being crushed by the Creator, of course, I would bear my loneliness as much as I did not write.
I thought I just loved people with all my naivety and mine was a plurality of loneliness: I put so many people in my heart and they ripped my pen and my heart deeply and I never expected them to mourn only to share my pain with the ones who spread my heart like everyone else or most different from everyone. I was presenting the field in me with the apology of being me.
That field that I bought fallow.
That field where my soul has been plundered.
That field, which was the bed of the heart, was as clear as if it had been washed with Zamzam water, its dust and even its soil.
In my words, every time my prudence is connected, I never asked anyone to share his pity on me, just to make it bountiful, to keep my climate, perhaps the wisdom in me, hidden.
While everyone loves each other, I compiled dowries from the words flying at the end of the page while I was slashed and pushed, so many people that I believe and hope for the sake of the so-called tomorrows that I never wanted much from them. What a wisdom my words have faded one by one.
Even though it is a skill that makes even the night enlightened with every particle hidden in the daylight, it seems that I cannot digest neither too much defeat nor was it difficult for people to love each other, moreover, the love that I was given from the first day and always inclined to love but inexplicably did not fall to my share.
Is it always wrong in front of anyone in order not to mislead?
Do words always cry, especially in the fabric of the literature I started out, not a satire or a level: presenting only my fallow life was a gilded road that I supposedly took on the gold platter, and I compromised my hope in order not to go astray, most of all, in the footsteps of love without breaking it.
To many things, most of all to myself when I'm late.
The calico of hope.
The recklessness of hope.
Those who turned hope into rags because hope was equated with love for me, and as I loved, the pen would grow as I emanated, and the child in me would grow, and whatever I had knitted for a lifetime, as if I counted where I was, they dismantled it one by one with resentment or unresponsiveness.
The recurrent history and who knows what the same scene?
An ignored loving soldier who should have been the leading role when I was love, of course, they did not even allow me to love, and then my hope faded, my enthusiasm and those who impeded my joy of life, but I knew my life, of course, the only witness that I was wrong is the angels on my shoulder, whose wings were already broken and the light in their eyes faded.
Do not be sad! - Poetry
Sometimes a word of consolation just isn't enough!
Those who cannot be insensitive and insensitive;
He is destroying himself.
Some say he cares so much;
Some are too wrong!
If some are poisonous, you will get away.
To be happy, one must learn not to erase or else
In this world?
If you are being tested with the trolls!
Pain rushed into my eyes again.
Diseases, separations, wars, deaths.
I wonder while all this is happening;
Isn't it selfish to think of happiness?
When all mankind is at salvation,
my only dream to be happy
I am always prone to difficulties.
That's why the particles I drew!
I could not sleep
My restlessness, my insecurity,
And my resistance alone is with the power of my creature.
They even distorted the meaning of LOVE!
They tried to use love for their benefit.
Actually they always did this since the world was established
Destroyers.
Without seeing the God who created!
What is your blind man?
A news that they have never won in any of their times;
How many times has this notebook been rolled up !!
How many civilizations have sunk while trying to sink humanity.
We are witnessing the last period;
Your last lesson.
Unintentionally.
I have never been people with a heart to fight
What records are there in history!
You have a look;
Above the ground, below.
We are in a patiently tested time.
Again, while we are burning with pain;
Always our wings of hope!
What were the layers of humanity?
Hand in hand.
The apocalypse of love is the ones who love loneliness most of all, with lies.
Mine is neither a human love nor a dream of a two-person world, because my love was enough for everyone, and I was supposed to learn with love, the suffering of fate, and before I left my line, I was defeated and it always happened. Of course, it was not the door of Truth that I was judged, only when they ignored it when it was the end of the relative truths accepted in the world, and finally they broke the tip of the pen, and it is worse than the broken of my heart because I had tied everything and my hope to the pen after I passed this last door that opened to me.
I tend to write the most beautiful every time I sit at the table and find peace when I put the point, and my feelings that I reveal after hours have become an appetizer with all its reality and simplicity.I was just an unused wad of paper on the table of nothingness, or a pile of crumpled napkins that was printed on top of it and passed over.
After I always burdened myself, it means that I was the one who zigzags and draws in the balance of supply and demand, this time I wrote whatever I had mercilessly, I threw them into the trash, moreover, I sacrificed my sleep.
Just to share.
Just meeting common ground.
Loving and the reward should be tolerance at least, because I learned that people cannot easily love me, maybe that's why I always chose hard, but since I always loved the hardship, I was burdened with myself just so that nobody should be upset and no one should be hurt.
And with all my resentment, I ended every article I wrote, but it was very painful and I gave my pen a chance again, at least because people will give me a new chance.
What my hurt is that besides the broken nib of the pen, the wreckage of my whole life is in that broken nib, maybe as much as anyone else, maybe as I am not like anybody else.
What do I keep parallel to most?
Because the way to prove that I am a good person is through being a good writer, the only thing I believe is to write while I am devoted to my existence and whenever I am wrong; The fact that my humanity, my love, and what I write are worthless is the fact that my faith and devotion to life loses momentum while my enthusiasm for writing, which is not reciprocated, fades.
Especially the enthusiasm and desire to build a new life out of those crumbs by taking advantage of the last crumbs of an unsuccessful life, which is associated with my humanity as much as what I have been engaged in for a lifetime, ultimately I lost my faith in myself and my loyalty to my pen in one session. So that value / worthlessness deemed written by me when I was so reliant on the reader and when it was the same article that different people read on different platforms.
Should it really be like this, especially when I was the last chance I gave myself, the feeling that the power that writing gave me was lost and everything had come to an end.
So what was I on the road for?
Of course, with the possibility of faith and love and hope, especially with the possibility of growing love and hope and the growth of the love that I will feel for myself, and suddenly everything but everything came to an end.
And here in that fetal position I am just waiting for my last breath because the pen and I have had such a great love that in the last few years and I only hoped everything would go well: even if I write, I can no longer stop the tears of the pen and it has taken its place in the land of stolen dreams just like With all my dreams and ideals that I have buried before, we are now just waiting for me to give my last breath, especially when I do not want to live without a pencil and without a reader, and of course, living is just like an ordinary person, tied to routine and being consoled by the blessings of the world and I have already shunned my turn.
Should it be my last article? Every time I write, I am already missing the train, traveling at the tip of the pen like a runaway passenger and drowning in tears.
