==MY PEN==

I am not a writer, nor am I a poet,

Just on the secret page of my mind,

In the deep white book of the heart,

Some fragments of the feeling floated up.

Which is a combination of reality and fairy tales,

Some reflections, unsettling heartbreaking stories are painful.

I keep them in order,

Arranged in the context of staggering memories-

Let's talk about the past, the present and the future,

In the midst of seclusion, the details of shattered dreams.

Occasionally millions of beetles come in secret,

From the ink of my pen to the nib.

They embrace my conscience,

Yet I am indefatigable to the wording I arrange.

Sometimes a salty rain falls in my eyes,

Sadness and happiness in my life are the change of seasons.

Hiding the wounds of the inner city of my atrium,

As much as my love separation frustration,

Everything I can write with a pen,

I can be satisfied by shouting at me.

Luckily, there are no words in it.

I am not sick happily,

There is no happiness in illness,

Yet I forget to laugh and cry,

I broke down and built a house.

Sometimes I fall asleep with my head full,

The pen is in my laughter in the intoxication of self-existent drug use.

I spend my sleepless nights complaining about life,

So sometimes reluctantly cover your face with a pillow.

The waterfall of happiness constantly flows on my lips,

In the middle of the chest, erupting volcanic eruptions.

Only my pen knows,

Dumb laughter is the sound of crying, just how heartbroken,

Luckily, tears have no form, smell, color.