The wind blows reverse and people always contrary to my soul

My words from the dripping blood of the pen I gear.

Sometimes the dignity is sometimes empty -speaking, or my favorite flower in a chamomile field, and my favorite flower, while the daisies moved away from my rose identity, and I didn't look at the chamomile fortune or something.

I have feelings that make retaliation again tonight and I'm swinging like a huge excavation truck on the road and sometimes I drive back from right to left.

This is the last year when I lived as if the truck had passed through me, my only one day has not passed peacefully and I keep gnawing the pen without my hand.

Sometimes the wind blows in reverse and people always contrary to me so that I took me so that my quiet screams that go into the measure of my height and the archae.

Shedding peel of life.

A pencil cover living in the cavity.

Words that grind my soul.

The people I pursue after ah, wouldn't they be proportion to me and I come from kindness to me and I would be a killer and I got up to take everything on me and respond to respond.

My heart from the plush.

My hair is cluttered.

I have a runny nose.

Even if I say I cry slobbery, don't believe it, after all, my tears were running out of pain.

Gang words.

And I counted dawn.

Is it the barrel that I put on my beard?

I swear on my honor that it is never full that weapon that you know the pencil of the pencil just make eyebrow eye on the white paper, since I can not draw any other than the shape I can not draw with poems.

Pure sadness.

My notables are very arrogant.

Some rebellious.

They are usually full of love, but did I turn around.

He landed in the heart of the pen last night, my world was shaken.

You ask why?

I never say, if you're wondering, read what I wrote, though I don't care, but I know.

I will burn what I wrote in seconds later, and I will shed gas on it.

If it's a mistake, I did.

The days when I run around the calligraphers or I miss to translate, maybe I run around the school corridors.

Who am I?

If you still do not understand, there is nothing to do after all, after that I will not attempt to tell you after that I will only pour bullets in the empty page and I will remove my heart in front of the hunter.

Actually, neither hunt nor hunter.

From one word I bounced with my pen-wing temperament to another:

You can understand, a gigantic synergy, though people have difficulty in understanding this passion of my enthusiasm.

I agree with the author and the same:

But when I choose this beginning, don't I still release myself to some hopes and empty consoles?

Or how would I maintain this miserable life if it wasn't hope?