When I'm angry, I suddenly go out like a chaff flame and load myself up

Life was the tingling of a rotten dream, and sometimes it was busy with scribbling.

My boat of peace.

The only thing called life.

I am unconditional and multiply as I grow.

He is the one who gives rise to dreams, every time he falls, a person realizes much later that he tripped himself unknowingly.

If we are a dream.

Oh, did we fall too…

Sometimes, people fall in love and fall in love, even if they are fond of people. I have always been ready for what will happen, that I was caught neither by winds nor by earthquakes, while I was ready for my peace.

I do not make pompous judgments and I never decipher the demon and the cruel, and here the universe gives the memorandum, and I am elected as the headman of all ninety-nine villages from which I was expelled…

Oh, I'm out of breath.

My breath that I inhale deeply.

My miserable soul, my body that I trained as a child, and with long years of hunger.

You know, I wasn't going to touch my empty stomach while I was patching the wound that remained yesterday.

I was wasted for a while.

I'm not a bullshit, I just empty the squares in my heart with the feeling of trusting someone who doesn't decrease, maybe it's the QR code of life, and what should I see while I give the words to the endless shadows?

Backbiting and persecution are both rampant.

I see that; pen is on its way too.

My color is white in the sky, sometimes black clouds, but I know that soon mercy will rain and roses will bloom on my face.

I have the rose.

In my generation of the day.

Rose on my face...

I pouted when I was sad and then ruthlessly blamed myself.

I don't feel sorry for myself, but it hurts me even more, sometimes the blow I get from people is like a slap in the face.

I've only been slapped once in my face by my father, who was in the terminal illness he was caught in, and on the way to the end...

My face is still on fire.

I still burn.

Also, I once took a curse I heard from somewhere when I was a kid, but let me tell you the story behind the slap my mother hit on my leg.

My horizon was always brightened when I was a child, because I was a flower that bloomed with love, and my family gave incredible effort to my education or to grow up, of course, like everyone else or more because I understood the Hitler version thanks to my beloved father, the nuance of my being raised as a soldier as a military grandson, and I did not bow my head even after he disappeared. And if he did, I didn't bring anything to myself, neither to my name, nor to my family.

Then something happened.

I saw the demon and his followers, who were hiding somewhere, and they were arguing after me.

All of them are dead, of course, they don't have a place to sleep anyway.

There is not a single medium I fear, except for the supreme Divine Authority, so I keep my word, especially the residue called pain that these three or five years have left in me.

My reward.

My stability.

I am a tin soldier.

Maybe it will bounce off like a bullet, of course, the only target I'm targeting is myself.

I live in range.

I sleep in my trench.

And I keep watch for an uninterrupted life, as well now.

I have colors and my enthusiasm and my child's heart.

I am a bunch of fringes of the heart, but I am not sluggish, moreover, there is no servant of God that I resemble or imitate, I just look ahead and think of nothing else while focused on myself and the work at hand, because I have not once harbored a feeling of jealousy, except for myself, which I have to overcome.

While I appreciate every beautiful person and every job well done, I have trained for a lifetime, of course, is the barracks in which I live: I said I am a tin soldier.

It is heavy like lead, but the things I carry are light with love, and sometimes a blind lead comes into my heart: after all, I revive my heart with love, and somehow, my love for anyone who is lovable is heavy for them and I run far, far away.

A lifetime away from most things.

With people for a lifetime.

Then I got offended by life again and escaped into myself.

And suddenly the sun rises in the middle of the night when the light shines and I run to people again with enthusiasm and love...

I was offended again, and here I am carrying a new burden that has become heavy like lead.

People don't feel sorry when they love.

Or was it ignored?

Or was he also offended?

It's close to dawn.

A huge earthquake that shook my heart and aftershocks have been shaking for days, both my heart, my pen, and the resentment in my temperament, while living on that broken fault line without even realizing it.

I can't hurt anyone.

Even if I'm offended, I can't be angry.

Let's say I'm angry, I suddenly go out like a straw flame and I load myself again.

I am a tin soldier.

I am also familiar with the torment in the grave: there are so many shadows around me that the wall has ears, as they say.

People make fun of my footsteps, my breath and my happiness, most of all my sadness.

What a word to cry out loud, especially to laugh is a mouthful.

When I was little, I laughed so much in the middle of the street, but only once, I am not ten years old, and I was devastated by my mother's harsh warning:

Laughing in the street?

Housing.

I burst into my laughter while laughing.

I shed my tears while crying.

While I love, I also love inside and silently now.