My inner world will come into line with my clusters hidden in dream climates and sometimes red purple dreams.
Moss green memorandum
I drink wild chestnut.
I am a native of sadness, of course I am a foreigner
Cities I haven't been to.
I talked to the nightingale, my way fell to a good bye:
Smiles faded on my smiling face
Everything that went through me was the meaning of being a flower.
discord
Here I am purified, painfully.
Today I am different, I am no different from that whirling dervish hidden inside, who refuses to wear underwear in his blue gown, and I extend my hand from my darling and at work dreams.
The big pupils of the clouds.
When I hit the road with my impulsive heart.
Plays all the unspoken.
I am a simple and arrogant breeze.
I dreamed of you last night:
Oh, how I fell into this love.
I loved you in dream courts where a judgment and unjustified decisions are dying at the invisible end of the city on the hidden sidewalks of Yosmas.
Did you crack my ear?
Or am I hiding in the air you breathe?
The wall of the heart and the bulwark of loneliness.
I am a regular in your pains, but I am a Bedouin loyal to my Lord. I cannot say how dry this love is like a desert flower blooming in the deserts where I fell.
My connection.
My altitude is a dream house where I settled, and my pen is the crown of my head and my self, which is stoned on the cobblestones I skipped, and my love and fondness are tested with hope and without you.
Who knows where you are and with whom?
It's your inner voice that you called yesterday and gave to a busy person.
Did you fall into difficulties or did you knit your hair and your appearance from individual feelings, I chase you every time you run away, which is the back of the mountain that I know as a trench to avoid being chased as you run.
A peace, maybe I overturned the night.
The virgin tone of the night, and sometimes I face death.
It is absolute, both my concerns and the world must give its memorandum.
What are you giving away?
I heard it, but we swore on life togetherness with you.
That Yemeni that I don't wear and that.
Does the smell of coffee come from afar?
With my sadness.
Poetry with my love.
I knit stories with my pain and I am a decent girl and when I love, I pass out.
I would pass myself again.
Ah, have I come to maturity at last, and the cement hidden in the clouds of sadness.
What was it that you couldn't digest, did you turn your back?
I had made an annotation with my sadness, I knew you as a port of love and milk.
They used to say that history repeats itself, but I wouldn't believe it, and neither would you.
I don't have the lines of tired years on my face, after all, I'm out of line, most of all, my words that bloom with love, the feelings that I sometimes take for granted and here we burned the ships.
I'm not in which picture you scribbled?
At which table did I sit and you did not put the plate in front of me?
If we were a Divan, what would love be to each other as much as we do not hold on to each other?
Now you're gone.
You hide in yesterday.
A hidden euthanasia in my day, maybe I ignore my feelings from time to time, if you are no longer a cadaver, how would I write such sentences?
Are you a wealthy curve, and here my ears are ringing again and even the Deaf Sultan has heard this confession.
What are you made of?
Is it against my sadness or your joy that I am not taken on?
If we name it, do we always break this friendship, one by one, from the same place, of course, the arm is broken and the arm is left in the sleeve, while I poured my secrets into the mirror, the mirror looked at me and laughed.
It turns out that your heart and you are the one who gave the death warrant, of course, I survived the gallows again, and I knew all the narrow angles as wide, in fact, I just learned that your sect is wide.
You are a sleeper.
You are a sleeping bag.
As for me, the soldier of the night and the poet on duty, of course, my words are purple, when will they not fall from my heart.
This letter to the bearer.
I was armed with a cannon and I came to the battlefield, especially knowing that I was a tough nut when I fought with myself for a lifetime, maybe it's the principality, of course, what you said is the last test I took when you were in silence.
Multiple choice is my world.
Also, my words that clatter are actually cheesy, my eyes and love, and that's the reflection every time I go to poems brewed with so much emotion.
On the other hand, of course, I will not hate myself or even you for you.
If it is an isotope, words are harder than splitting the atom, to break your stubbornness and despite this disconnection, I managed to love myself better and worse, I am its messenger, here is yesterday and what is written, of course, does not fail the ambassador, and it is my spirit, my joy and my world, maybe I am writing down the road that I could not take with my calender heart. And I know you read what I wrote.
I touch your soul from the afternoons when you take a nap and I imagine that I am a dream fairy, and I no longer lament since the day you left, when I realized that I could easily love many people from the beginning and with my whole being, with my frustration.
I wouldn't be able to write a single word if I didn't suffer so much if you don't have the gifts you gave me from the days I cried.
The featherweight is my conscience.
It is also known that the universe breeds superstitions.
It turns out that we are hidden in a right-angled triangle:
I can't even think of preventing you and the words that escaped from inside of me and you and me, after all, even if you think that I have turned into a wreck with your disabled heart, and while you are a weasel, I am running because I have seen infinity.
