When it's my turn, I will even laugh because there is nothing to fear, the account is OK

The second life that people like me can live later is nothing but the book in your hand. It also depends on your attention, reader. Let me show you honesty, and you show me compassion.

I am a surrealist image playing god in the dream school, and life is diametrically opposed to what I've been through.

Maybe I am an anger exported by silence, while the last appetizer of the evening when a puppy was abandoned to be snuggled into the soil of my grave, my body, the way I went out with my soul, and eternity, I bestow my monopoly and paint the crumbs of my heart one by one. This bride has no veil and she refuses to be seen for as long as she can remember.

A lifetime while I didn't give any of the things I'm going to tell you the right of passage...

As life has already taken the helm and taken off from your left every day, destiny, I take on the steps of a turtle, there is no time and place, there is no time and place, knowing that what I have owned, or rather knowing that I am owned, is the only reason to keep my power hidden, the rest is up to time, after all, I am an abstract existence.

I am cautious now: both while living and loving.

I need to quote a quote, since I am eliminating my merits one by one from my past, and I am a fallacy burdened with persecution.

The direction of the wind and its speed, of course, a sense of freedom that develops after writing, knowing that I am the one who directs the wind, which allows me to live so recklessly and within impossibilities, in order to overcome my lifelong silence, that thunder accompanied by my pen, however, brought me many things. refrain from doing.

I'm not the one who takes the pulse of the season, after all, I'm not responsible for the course of most events that I don't feel their pulse, I just sometimes throw a deficit with my budget, which is considered problematic, even though I am so competent in accounting.

I am both ahead and behind by a wide margin.

I lament the wind that chills my feet through the door that remains open, whereas the weather outside is daily sunshine, and I blame myself for everything that I am not capable of.

An abstract notice, I received.

Maybe my cold, most of all, hot weather brings my susceptibility to the highest point.

Painter of the night.

The magical world of solitude.

The ones I overestimate and I position myself at the very back, whereas I always whistle from one sidewalk to the other, which I sometimes bounce like a bouncing ball at the top of the row, with the goal I scored myself.

Whispers that come out of my mood, sometimes even I haven't heard, and the revenge of life is almost as if I'm trapped on this page, while waiting for their turn.

The ones I couldn't get over.

Sometimes my inner voice is like an idle dream and fallow; my brain is on nonstop work and I am running around like a busy bank clerk. I will be looted from one file to the next like a forgotten good in customs, maybe I will be sent back to where I came from.

My pen is in the fetal position for days.

My soul is dying in every groan of my pen.

I'm also worried.

As for the pen, it is the way of getting rid of the emptiness, like the life I give up on sometimes, the way of getting rid of the emptiness.

Maybe a dream come true.

It's an extraordinary emotion that caught my attention, and here's my starting point.

The source of the biggest noise is the silence that I benefit from.

Of course, I was often ridiculed for my adult identity, which I sometimes rejected as a child, when I closed my ears to the noise and migrated.

That pressure in my chest.

While bullet holes in my body escape from almost every hole, the words accumulated in me and I build word upon word. The underlying story is that while I was the narrator of the story, I suddenly became the hero of the story.

The shouts are wild.

The night and the wind are too rough.

While a lonely and neutral me is hidden inside me, and the shadows that sometimes fall asleep, let me wait in the most exciting part of the movie, I have been waiting for years and here is my pen and my imagination that comes into play when I say the end of the rope and here I am, I am constructing my life as I go through so many other lives and metamorphosis sometimes The years I spent wandering in the ward of a life that was busy with producing as much as I could, like the bottomless pains hidden in a unique perspective with the aim and effort of being stereotypical and sometimes unique…

I'm going to take myself into account.

There is an account or not, and in the whisper of the poet I find myself:

There is nothing to fear, the account is complete.

Is it my turn to even laugh

I know I prepared myself.

Like flowers that bloom and fade in the shadow of time and the destiny of life and love.

A cover is that I cover the soil, in fact, the soil absorbs me and yes.

I know that the time is up and the account is complete and I fearlessly move forward to the end that awaits me.