I Say It Again Şiiri - Kasım Kobakçı

Again, what bitch rhymes do you come from, you poet?
You turned it off with an exceptional charm, obviously the lantern,
To the objects that you have been very narrow in your channels,
What is it, you are silent.

To the corners of obsessed, addicted loves,
In a sadness, you are hazy,
A circumambulation in the same words you wrote,
Invariably free from reality.

According to what I heard;
Berceste your heart, a great revolution,
And your pen is the most beautiful,
An cost determination while his hands are covered,
Write down the pain a little bit, little by little.

Come on, open your chest with a fury,
Like a mare running away from the flames, rub your soul on me,
Embarrassment, boredom,
Come on, write your verses to the most clueless oceans;
Barefoot, even bare, is somewhat forbidden.

But equip it with the most shameful words,
A blossoming love,
Dive into its dangerous waters,
Wasn't it just yesterday?

The heart is in the bastion of the castle,
That suicidal threshold,
What kind of head is yours?
Write today too!

With an agitation crackling in the subconscious waves,
Open wide the doors of your heart, with a bitter current of cold,
Don't know what you wrote, don't know yourself,
But never erase the beauty of your heart,
Start a love poem with a new delusion.

I can't write like you, flowery words of love,
I can't complete the words,
It is not my place to write poetry,
My language is in my soul, a novice rookie..

My feelings are severely injured, convicted of writing the truth,
My pen is a vagrant looking for trouble in papers,
A kind of incomprehensible language of my heart,
A little smart, often crazy,
In the most sensible stories,
Believe me, I paid every price.

I will be silent, you write a little,
As you write, let this world's nevi, which I was caught by surprise, turn,
Burn the tinder of your heart,
Burn the papers you crumpled.

Make my ear deaf,
Burning laments in confession,
Or let the poems stay away from the mother,
Let the past tense return in your words.

Evil eyes have already fallen on him,
If I say stop, if I say stop, fake love, rude lovemaking,
If I say install, countdown,
The clock of your destructive heart.

Without exploding, the naive feelings inside,
From a poem you missed syllable syllable,
Come on poet, save yourself !!

You don't know!
I gave up on being a poet overnight,
In the dry frost of Ankara,
In the smell of a moldy building where I was spared like my mother.

My nightmares would wake up,
In the silent voice of my introverted heart,
The sharp whistling of the winds composed my waste,
My love was left over on bunk beds, when I was forbidden to love.

I carried the sea with my eyelashes drop by drop to Ankara,
Mogan lake foamed,
Emotions foamed inside me,
Screaming seagulls would take off from my chest.

He touched my left side,
Believe me, the degenerates would touch my blood,
On every corner, what a squeak is a smack with a smile,
And disabled pimps who think they're all about manhood.

What a vicious circle,
What a mean grin,
Mental procedure, people with infertility,
As the night gives birth to painful tomorrows,
Castrated, all good feelings.

I've never written a poem,
I've always said, all I have,
Without getting lost in the ecstatic breath of the streets,
Without falling and wobbling.

Without thinking but without bullshit,
Never blame myself,
You know, those bastards with a heart that I embrace,
When I entered my life and wrote about nothing, I gave up being a poet.

What type of poetry fits?
On the palm of my hand that I clenched my fist,
While hitting people's bitch yeast with my pen,
This bitch of your life has become a rosewood on my tongue,
Tell me, how to write a poem?
To the ungrateful deception of my friends.

Every night, corpses without their souls would walk over me,
The dirty blood that has accumulated in their hearts,
Slanders rained down on me,
Ankara was slipping off my feet.

The seven colors of the seasons were sliding,
A smile was broken inside me,
Gazelle flood at the end of the barrel,
Bullets rained down on my loneliness,
In the empty streets persecuted by keen eyes.

I would be september,
Everyone is spring, everyone is April,
Have a nice day everyone,
My miserable fires would grow, but from my temples,
And he would die inside of me, a person I called my soul.

How many funerals did I raise with greetings inside me?
In the snow white of Ankara,
I gave up on myself,
I was defeated in this life, I poet!

I realized that; This cruise does not walk in this flood,
My blind luck when I'm suicidal,
Even the nights I was killed,
Enough to make it look like death,
I am defeated.

Now; you too...
By tearing your most sinister feelings out of your bosom,
Leave your safest chest to the waters,
One day; When you hit the shore, if you take shelter in a port,
And if you feel the pain of someone you never knew.

Or, if there is a true heart,
If you realize that tonguehun is buried in his loneliness, his last poem,
At work; when you saw him die,
Now you are a poet too!!!