Everything will be okay,
if it looks in your eyes,
but there is war in my mind.

My darling is no longer here
nor on tonight's poetry
where half of her face was lost in the night
and dreams are now no longer like a blushing red moon
when I last saw her drunk in the lap of love.

It’s really happy if you can always create the night from restless in your heads--
creating many twinkling stars in your sleep
reaching the sky
seeing her cute smile from out there.

What is my darling doing now?
Like a hope that I failed to achieve again.
O, is this a loss that is felt many times?

Tonight is like last night.
Poetry is like a cure for every addiction
to such a sad life.
O, I just let go--all the words.
Just let her fly around the lost soul
on a body that was empty
and had become in rubble vanished.

Even though there is no moon and stars anymore
even though you are still looking for the bright light
in your cramped room--
because the sobs never end and always cover your chest.
Tonight will remain a long night--
the sound of the bats are so deafening
the sound of the crickets soothe the atmosphere—
like your lonely heart
who has died by many buts.

Alright, let's get it--everything
like nothing had ever happened
like the indifference of human life
like you can only feel your soul fly in the imagination that you create yourself.

Alright,
tonight will be like last night--a long night
the night where my darling is no longer here
neither in my head
nor in this poem.

I write a *******
and I realize...

What’s the poet you can think,
And you never let me bring
The poet tells about the king
Whose death by ****** *******
And I tell that’s poet lying

What’s the poet you can love,
And you never let me involve
The poet tells about a dove
Whose wings broken by Jove
And I tell that’s poet drunken off

What’s the poet you can believe
And you never let me live
The poet tells about you
Whose love will get blue
And I tell that’s poet true!

This is sadness.
The sadness that only I can feel.
There are no words to describe this sadness.
Poetry is full of dead words, and I realize it is real.

This is sadness.
The sadness that only I can feel.
I can't do anything with this sadness.
Tell me if this sadness is not real!

How I write a poem is like
how I struggle to get you,
it all exists only in my imagination.

If my poem tells a lie, will the world give me a truth?
I am alive but I do not feel I am alive.
I feel like I have lost my soul.
My soul of my life.
My soul of my imagination.
My soul of the day I feel I never get it at all.

If my poem tells me a truth, will I believe that the world tells me a lie?
I am alive but I feel like I am a loser.
A loser of my life.
A loser of my imagination.
A loser of the day I feel I get what I want it at all.

If my poem tells me everything about my life, will you think I tell a lie and the world give you a truth?