The Seizures I Had Inside

The burning smell hidden at the tip of my soul and the loneliness that is internalized is creamy, my arms falling all around me and on both sides and oh, that broken window in me.

I am the footprint of a mournful bird, that window where I sag, not bounce, and here is the poet patting my back and denouncing my identity.

Oh, the order I succumbed to.

My irregular feelings and the possibility of correction, what is already going on in my life, I am not even a runaway traveler, while I am the most mysterious stranger of life and every stranger that I frighten as much as I was startled, while I am the most mysterious stranger, the memorandum of happiness and heaven, and here is my heart, which is full of mercy, and my heart is touching the hook on which I hang. and my ashy feelings.

If it is obvious that I was whining.

Nothing I'm familiar with.

My defeats and myths that run a horse in your lane are also the marta of which I have locked in my heart, which is written while a superstition that I will find myself in that wreckage that my unkind soul left behind is a key point.

The smiles are diminishing from my pocket and the veil of the wind hidden in my hand, and here come the tune that I have never said, come to see that the composition that I have never said is not going out of my ear, but I cannot go away from myself, so I sometimes run away and put it on your heart and it lightens my burden a little bit by the breeze blowing from you.

What am I a foundation for? And how much time have I left?

I don't have a child to stretch my arms, I killed yesterday and destroyed all the evidence that was left behind.I burned the poem I had just written with his body, and here I run out after my defeated life, every emotion and this time I am different, maybe when I was a soldier of an unimaginable mystery. There is nothing I stipulate.

The dreaming of annotation is only my sadness bundle and I am the only running horse that does not have a pioneer in its track.

I am a horse head yesterday, and I am only ten years old, even though the time has not been ten years since the day I wrote.

I am replenishing my exhausted fuel and I only ask you to upset me more and I know the tiredness that accompanies my ages every time I cry.

I'm tired at least as much as you.

While you love groping.

The peace of writing while using the pen procedure and lately even that is not enough for me, however, I have always been satisfied with what I have been honored, even a lifetime when I was conceded to my incompetence.

My heart is my heart, I follow my enthusiasm in my twenties, but I have already missed the train and life does not even treat me as a stowaway.

Myself that I can't escape.

I ran away.

It is myself that I missed my eyes.

I am adding new pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that you have completed while you are the voice and slogans that do not go out of my ears, and I do not think my face will smile anymore.

While the words are the backyard of my life, which I have kept hidden in the cellar, I have already accepted the fate that is ruled by the onslaught of darkness, and I know that they will tramp my body when every story I have not written has its own place and pain.

I wish I could settle for my pain and know the secret in emotions that I have never been able to explain, and nothing I said yet.

The charlatan in me is one of those who destroyed me and I cannot escape.

I'm cold.

Although nobody knows that I fell.

I am silent and how.

I have to write each of them in order to destroy them and the records hidden in my mind, and I consult with my fate that I cannot write, but fate has inviolability and I accept it with sorrow.

My baht or my throne ...

I have already left the office I was in.

My identity is going to carambola and here I download the hatim, I will leave me in Ramadan one after the other, and here I will go after my dreams like the Eid boy again, which I have postponed from dreaming, just like I have postponed the happiness for a lifetime, but the hope is still ...

The day does not pass.

I come across my name in a morbid whisper, obviously I have fallen into the tongue of the shadows and the demon, but I do not sound and I patiently await the manifestation of Divine Justice.

My soul and my kept speechless.

My lucky count is thirteen, because I count in all my depictions, and I am caught at every occasion, surely he does not know the commander, I am always ready with my deficiencies and missing epaulettes, and I do not mind that whenever I go out I always get caught on the bazaar permit, after all I forget that I should not go out.

I can not get out of the business and I never count it as dawn because I do not want this watch to end, and here I am the scribe of fate, I guess they love me together with my favorite heart, of course, with the title of writer.

Even if I am a civilian.

I am the sole responsibility of the military discipline in which I live and live, and my father left me a legacy of this escape, but as much as I fled, I surrendered to myself from the world and this time I give my pen to myself, but the events do not develop as I want.

Thousands of sentences I wrote and ripped.

To the voice in me that I am offended by the sentence.

Maybe my anger is the day I was born, and when I was the main responsible of my wives, I see dozens of me and a thousand pieces as much as I was divided, that the person does not die from his pain.

My dreams were incomplete in my census, so I was punished and there is a roll call soon.

I have to go now and fulfill my duties one by one.

So that my father sleep in peace and I hope one day I forgive:

It is only my pencil that I cling to with the sadness and hijack of having already lost the thread of life when I cannot touch him and myself and myself, and the scabbling wind in my heart.

I am on watch, father, and I cannot come to his grave and I know that he is waiting for me, but I have more time to love myself and to forgive you, and knowing that you have not read also hurts me.