I was afraid of being late for my loved ones as I was late for myself

You are the flowing dirt of my dreams.

Perhaps the fluid hatred of the tyrant.

My miserable heart lying on its side in the lever of my interior and here is my tingling inner voice and the hiccup of yesterday.

When I don't write, I shout like a young man with a knife.

Like a wretched lover, I withdraw into myself, my verses bleeding as they fall to the ground, like coins falling like clinking coins: oh, how I am tearing myself apart.

I must hold my hand quickly, see, here it goes, my tired soul caught in the tassels of the night, my tired temperament.

I am a flood of life I have consumed.

I am a derivative of the past, the void where I perch.

The aria of my mind is the subject and identical dream of yesterday that I reminisce, my anger is for those who put a marker on the happiness I postpone as I mature, and here I am lost in myself again, just as I was reconciling with myself...

Love has no method.

I am not one of those who do not know the path, I am never like others and here are arrows and shadows stuck on the radar of the heart as much as I love improvisation.

I am an aphorism hidden in ruins.

My gentle heart.

The disguise of life I am hardened.

I am the obvious wind, I am the obvious familiar and in love.

The day after I praise, I meet with the pen and the fugitive words and here I have been chasing for days, pinching my soul for days and I have not come across a single emotion: only and only...

The bed mattress where I curled up numbly, so much so that I even missed the dizziness and my sad heart was in the wind.

The first thing I could not save from the fire was my memory.

Afterwards, the ply mark on my soul disappears and how I am a marvel of neat and tidy geometry where I make constant measurements with my protractor where my pain meter is broken.

I do not have the chips of my heart but the square of my heart in my hand and how many times a day I measure my blood pressure and it seems that I am not a goner, on the contrary, I am a pile driver.

My inner voice that I have retouched, or rather, the dominant outer voice, and how lazily I swing in the universe, and what I feel in the universe is only emptiness, while there is no trace of the sorrows I know as pleasantness, and how I am obviously enslaved to the order and the age.

My delusions, where are you?

Why doesn't my heart speed up before every writing/poem I am tormented by?

The awe hidden in the sky, I am meditating like an Indian fakir and how my fountain of emotion has dried up.

I have been sweating cold sweat for fifteen days and my pen has been misfiring for days.

I am not cold.

I am not sweating.

It hurts, but not much.

Maybe I'm slowly becoming like everyone else and I'm looking for ways to hurt people when my angelic heart has suddenly turned into a demon and I want to be hurt, I pinch both my hand and my pen with my unconscious consciousness and here the two are not together.

I bounce like a child and go back and forth, I am a fixed coefficient in the tides of my interior, but is it possible to be fixed where I am when I am always in a deadlock and even thousands of equations?

I am neither happy nor unhappy, I am just disconnected from life, and while I have washed my hands many times a day since the first day of the pandemic, I guess nowadays I just keep wiping and wiping white pages, of course, a word and a few sentences I have written that I return to the beginning and not only my perception threshold but also my pain threshold is dying.

Although I should be hurt, maybe I miss my pain and my search in the nothingness without caring about the ashes left from my burning heart, and I miss my subject, in fact, I am not aware of what I miss, I annotate with a self-data, while my sense of uncertainty and curiosity are lost.

The day is the pursuit of the night.

Love is a derivative of longing.

The season taps on my window with a big smile.

While the birds that are never absent from our window have stolen and pecked at my pen and words like birds of prey, and while that phone call I've been making for days haunts me, the phone rings painfully.

I see the caller and I give it to busy and that single minute that lasted as long as a year and here is the heart misfiring, the pen misfiring and the conversation I have been having for days.

I dial the number with fear and the other party picks up the phone, accompanied by the familiar cheerful voice of my dear friend for whom I have been shedding tears for days and for whom I have been closed inside myself.

We talk for a long time and to the fullest.

As I was late for myself, I was afraid of being late for my loved ones and my prayers were accepted by God.

The happiness of coming to myself and the bad mood that I have been feeling sorry for my dear friend for days and that I have matched with my empathy as if it was not enough, and that I see myself in my friend and maybe three or five years from now with a bad mise-en-scene imagining...

It is not enough that I have been lost in the waves of my swelling heart for days, as well as all the troubles and troubles I have experienced in my immediate surroundings.

Here everything is exposed, I come across myself again in the meddling of my soul, and while I can hate myself and my pen a little, I fall on the road again and I am looking for ways to love myself again, of course, when my first job was to write this article.

Even though it is late, I am experiencing a day that tastes like a feast and I cry to the fullest and while I look forward to the happiness that will follow, my pen comes back to life on the eve of finding myself again...