My Hero Wants To Belong Too, But

In The Mornings I Used To Say Goodbye To My Wife Like Someone Going To Work. I'd Leave The House, Walk Around A Few Blocks, And Come Back Like A Person Arriving At The Office.

Sometimes I Would See Them Not As Mementos Of The Blissful Hours But As The Tangible Precious Debris Of The Storm Raging In My Soul.

Istanbul Is Certainly In The Process Of Transforming Itself Into An Attractive Cultural, Tourist And Financial Center. But There Are Also Millions Of Sad Stories In This Giant Sea Of Immigration, Poverty, Misery And Contradictions. So Much Anger, Frustration And Fury.

...the Endless Repetition Of An Ordinary Miracle.

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...solitude Is Essentially A Matter Of Pride; You Bury Yourself In Your Own Scent. The Issue Is The Same For All Real Poets. If You've Been Happy For Too Long, You Become Banal. By The Same Token, If You've Been Unhappy For A Long Time, You Lose Your Poetic Power...happiness And Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.