I'm alive when I'm writing poetry
It ’s a daily routine in the morning
I'm good at obscene poetry, and when I found an acquaintance wearing a mask, I talked vigorously and finally I was banned.
I can see it, but my account has been deleted and I'm at a loss, but there's something that can't be helped, so don't stop my patience.
July the past.
I was hospitalized in a psychiatric department, and I was in a sad state where my heart popped out of my head because I was shocked by various things and my mind was cracked from the time I was a student. My first nickname in the ward was "hurt". It was said, "I'm crying every day." "You probably don't have a brain." I became friends with something.
I was discharged.
To people in the same room
I said I would write a letter, oh, I might come back.
We broke up.
It's a psychiatry and the environment isn't good, but the nurses were cool, there were a lot of people, and some poets were screaming. I also shouted a poem from the hospital room. Then each new poet's work is made.
It's a lot of stress to see people's hearts
and once I get used to it, it's easy.
The patient broke with Balibarin, so he curled up in the futon and laughed alone, thinking that it would be funny. Then, for example, the inspiration was clear.
... I thought that being unfamiliar with the violence and being split into violence would make the most of the outline of the spirit and the night.
I don't understand delusions, fantasies, and reality that I was passionate about nurses. I've fallen in love with it, it's painful, so I lie upside down and need Abilify.
I must tell him the Lord and make a distinction from reality. The nurse center is crowded and it's a confession of love, so I have to wait in everyone's eyes, holding a note on the back of a math print or colored paper for treatment. I had to. "What's written?" (The nurse was an idol and I was kind and popular with patients. I might say that it's easy to get rid of.) It's obvious that I like it, and I didn't really care about it, but my face is better, so I think it stands out. I go to the nurse center well enough and smile with him. I went back to the hospital room lively, and casually went to fetch hot water for coffee there, and I fell in love with his profile from outside the glass, and I couldn't go out because of corona's self-restraint, so I enjoyed this daily routine.
"I'm sorry nurse. My electric shaver in the station,
Please bring it to my palm. "
There is a poet's voice called Kimura.
That alone made me vaguely in the dream of poetry, both in the hospital room and in the hall. I am at the edge of the universe, where it is strange that I like poetry. like. And so on. I somehow thought that the nurse and the poetry were different, I couldn't choose them on this day and I was in trouble.
There is a forehead that says "symbiosis" on the wall of the hall, and there is an forehead that says "Buddha" in the nurse center.
Escape to the toilet.
The toilet contains shredded tissues and diapers in a box for menstruation.
I was suffocating because I was the only young. When I returned to the room, the elderly in the next room was screaming.
There is a god in the same room. "Pure white Yasuko's face, shiny, nose 1.2 times higher than foreigners, shiny, Yasuko's whiteness is 30,000 times a moon, so don't worry because your dad will prepare it for you. Help to me, Dad! ” Song. "Did a genius"
Will talk even after the lights are turned off. The spoon was an incense stick, the sprinkle was an incense stick, and a glass was placed on the floor of the front door of the room, and she lined up her poetry papers and prayed that she wouldn't feel bad about it. I was drawing a picture next to it at my feet.
In the hallway, there are gray desks, white tables next to them, light blue comforters, and chairs. The window over there is deep green of the trees, not too dark and grows beautifully.
I was hospitalized in a psychiatric department and my spirit was broken. People don't really come into contact with people, or rather, I'm "for the time being" and people think of it. I talked to the person by the window. She was an older, better-looking, spiritual person. The magical teacher acts on behalf of a person's ugly wishes. Fortune-tellers can see it. I felt it somehow at night and was hurt. There was a whistle.
"Yukio Mishima" made the story groundmother.
I got the name "Yamaki".
The word suicide was out of nowhere, and she stood in the middle corridor and coughed on purpose.
Pretending to be unfamiliar, tomorrow I have my poems and notes seen before meals.
Thin water eyes ...,
Her beautiful hands,
The notebook fell to the floor, but she didn't seem to care,
We draw the arc of our eyes. That's why I lose interest in others,
Our standing up dexterously dyed our hearts black, which seemed to be a rare color around us.
After reading the letters, the groundmother wrote her impressions on the table with her fingers. I was stupid and couldn't see.
It is called "Eight bridge" that there is a conflict of the same sex in love.