I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

If I were dead, I wouldn't be sad, and I wouldn't be glad, because I wouldn't be.

See mirror, every time you will miss me and look deeper into your eyes till you will find me.

The Inner Self...What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

If you are still alive when you read this,close your eyes. I amunder their lids, growing black.

With a ring around the rosaryAnd a pocket full of crossesAshes to ashesThey'll all fall down

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.

Şiir bizim eski suç ortağımızBiz ne işledikse onunla işledik

I say every dog looks like no otherbut that isn't true. Not entirely.Difference is slippery.

If liberty sang a song, little,as the larynx of a bird,nowhere would there remain a tumbling wall.

Music helps to forgetThis forsaken tomb,That is my abodeCellars downFar belowUnder the ground, ...

Hasten Little Maiden...stop and listenfor pearls of wisdomstop and listen as the river glistens...

Until we say the truth, there can be no tenderness.As long as there is desire, we will not be safe

A little bunny or some kind of ferret was probablythere too, and bore witness as only rodents can.