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Spills from My Pen in the Dark of the Night

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Written by   104
4 weeks ago

Words don't have a meaning, but they definitely have a meaning. What I have compiled from my secrets leaking from the walls of the heart hidden in the calendars of dreams! If I know the cure, I pray to God and I am reborn in the temple of love and mingled with the eternity of the universe.

Like a weapon forgotten in the World War II, I kept the bullets to myself, at the end of each day, I meet the night and get purified while my soul is on the other hand, are people who don't hear the soul die or not?

Calm from the Seasons.

Either Friday or Tuesday.

I don't rock it because it's rocking on Tuesday, and today I stuff the cradle of my inner child, and when he's cranky, I stuff a handful of poems into his mouth, smiling with considerable embarrassment, and he falls asleep.

Every time it is caught on the radar, I write poems before sleep in the direction of the night, but next to the ones I did not write, thousands of moths escape from the burning lamp, while I sprout in the dark of night and I water my loneliness with songs that went to seed when my words were seeds.

The concerto of my heart is perhaps the last feat of the universe, where I sometimes step on my fingertips in the Swan Lake Ballet and rise into the air, and the branches of the tree that I pruned in that infinity I landed because my pen is a woodpecker and the ruined temple in me that is sometimes defeated by words that I curse myself.

A universe, a brooch that I attach to my chest at the altar of darkness, in fact, I hang words and sentences with the intention of gold on the veil of the pen, I hang around the invisible bride's neck as I came, and then I fall like a stocking on the fingers of darkness like a stocking on my head, no one knits socks on my head, of course I am holy while the Creator I adore, invoke and love blesses the universe the temperament of my heart grows and multiplies in love.

If I have a root, it means yesterday.

If I have a tail, it's colorful.

A modesty-laden nobility perhaps raining down on my unruly braided hair.

I feel love in every color.

I correspond to a color in every emotion.

In the Divine cistern of love, I just touch the very top and the only place I want to go to, the only place I want to stay forever, as high as I can reach at the speed of the blood flowing from my heart.

If peace is my greatest desire, eternity on the sill of Divine Love, as long as it accepts me and I do not inherit or carry any of my pain into my next life.

The heaven are the birds of paradise.

Ah, the fiends of hell hidden in the world.

So much cruelty.

So many elements.

How very oppressed, maybe this is what makes me love the oppressed.

Whatever I suffer, what I refer to is destiny and the Most Merciful and the baby birds hidden in the curls of my hair, obviously this is the call of heaven.

I have to go now, hurry up and finish this last chapter.

Knowing after a life when I've had enough of loneliness, maybe that long and gigantic staircase I climbed up from the lingering pain.

Is it worth it or not?

What dream were you the beacon and what lie were you the last truth hidden in the world?

The seasons have no taste, it just rains light on your name.

Love, on the other hand, has a name, and it spreads its wings from one end to eternity and non-existence.

The tears of the sky are bloody and unintentional.

What's wrong with the rainbow in my hair if it's snowing? After all, my genes are getting old, my soul is hidden in Mount, which shadows the mourners.

There is an evil sadness hidden in my nails, and as I gnaw, the devils are swarming next to my hangnail, and I am still my child and I am still pure, yet I strive to grow and only my pains measure up like this.

Am I a tailor?

Well, then: it means that my heart will be ripped out more, the seams and flip-flops will continue to reign and one day I will close my eyes as I shut myself up with my closed slippers, but I have something to say before.

I'm stuck, I have only one place to go to life, of course, and it is waiting, I still do not want to commemorate death and I hold on to life with my dignity with my soul I know, most of all while looking at the sky and diving, I feel free as a bird and I offer the endless love inside me to its only owner.

If it is a divine light that flashes in front of me every night and one of the words dominates, the pen starts to write to my soul at full speed, and my muse does not come to wait, otherwise it disappears and disappears, and I ignore the wetness of the tears falling from my eyes and write, ignoring that the paper is crumpled, sometimes I want to take a break.

My heart accompanies the rhythm of words, perhaps the opposite. In any case, it's a beautiful togetherness and I freeze my thoughts and my brain is transferred to the tip of the pen and is filled with huge downpours, both my paper and my soul.

It's an exceptional time period when I ignore my afflicted loneliness.

My inner notice.

By ignoring your external voice's rebellion.

While I have bestowed love, my God and a love that grows even more by writing.

Although the gin is playing ball in the empty streets of my mind, but…

I don't care about the stimuli inside me or the unnecessary noise of the external voice, and I measure my life without making any concessions. In the lines I write, the power that offers me, as well as the longing that keeps me away from me, makes me gasp, I know that I have proven my soul's coming of age by writing.

A shadowy being is in the darkness keeping its place.

An unusual stir in my heart.

My mind is on hold.

I, the one who rules my existence, let go of the reins and let it flow, I destroy the words and all spelling mistakes of life and I revive my heart by writing, just like an extension of a lifetime of love, I multiply by writing and keep rhythm from my diminishing pains to the night.

A painful creation.

Maybe I saw a mirage.

I buried the gloom of life.

With that extraordinaryness in my mood, I pass the ordinary feelings of a lifetime, and sometimes I punish the pen with one foot, of course, the pen takes over my existence, this time it takes my existence and every syllable that bounces and suddenly starts running.

Even though I don't know where I'm going and I don't care.

After all, the gravitational force of nature is such a supernatural power that has taken over my memory and soul.

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Written by   104
4 weeks ago
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