I am a master of pain, sir, and I am a miserable butterfly, a dialect expelled in the middle of the night, while my lady is a suckling pig in every syllable, the guard of the climate inside me, and I never like the heat.
I am the goddess of cold weather, mister and left and right, a mind-numbing worm that gnaws inside and fattens outside.
I'm addicted to every color, mister, most in love with the dirt on my hand, my destiny is written on the back of my forehead.
If I'm on a discovery, I'm out.
If I'm an explorer, I'm halfway through.
My soul is hidden in one layer of my heart and I iron it, sir, I love and crumple without being cold, I meet with even more pain, I open on the ground the most, I embrace the pole in the heat of summer at least.
I am the equator of the world inside me.
What I wrote is the summary of the world.
I am a world and in love with the world.
I drink and take on every caramel-colored dream, in fact, I open it in nutritious bitters
Sometimes my notable is vindictive.
I greet the love with wings.
There is no greeting, there is no return, the return and retouching of this road.
I can't keep the consistency of your soul and yogurt and a taste hidden in the cut milk, I measure the spirits and gigantic prophecies with a weighing scale, from time to time I draw curtains with my miserable and unsettled dreams inside me.
Ah, mister, some human eyes and hearts are veiled.
I, on the other hand, burn for the sake of my reader, I burn without knowing it, and most of all I go out like a straw flame and if I like it, I love it very much, sir.
My soul is hidden in my identity, and the crease in my soul is your life, and between the two adhans you call life, it is read and ends, so it is eternity, and my only wish is to touch the top.
“I tried to run away. It didn't.
So write poems with flowers
I find it useful for my soul
But you are angry at me writing poems with flowers, sir.
You don't know my messy body
I'm hiding behind the flowery curtains."
It's like a petition of sadness that raises my hat to the love I've been held in absentia.
I will finally escape from the axis on which I slid.
And I will be reborn again and again in a poem where the love that I am the sacrifice of is erupting.
That's why love is my heartfelt and longing, my report and my migration will bloom in the countryside of innocence, where my heart is certainly pure, my fading flowers and my flowery poems, sir.
I am the most intricate syllable of the sadness that I am addicted to, sometimes love sometimes burns like a rose and I fill up again in a fire that I can't light with sadness, then my color fades and I fly to the sky as much as I can't fit into the sky, I fit into a small heart and I can fit the whole universe and no one hurting me, I hold on to my stubbornness. ignited skirts of loneliness and my power of faith are hidden in my steadfastness and lines.
Oh, sir.
Maybe it's because I don't love it, because I am fond of writing, love is the first syllable of an edict that I stopped to write with the recklessness of flying, sir.
If I'm sad, I'm annotated.
And my love shovel.
While I am the most inaccessible wave of the seas that I swim in temperate climates, I write and love my life recklessly as much as I distribute love.
“Do you know the beauty of a poor love?
Even if he sees a rose, he would say goodbye.
I'm lying
Roses don't talk at all this time, sir."
Still, roses bloom on my face, sir, when I love the most.
The joy of being a rose is the lectern inside me, and how my head is wrinkled on the roads, while I pat the back of the poems, my edict is hidden in the sky where love rises.
Besides, I didn't ask your permission, sir.
I know that you are angry, but love is worth it, sir, the familiar is more than the words that I spread wings in the beauty of your soul.
