I partly forgive and never forget

In the mist of my heart

So they wrote on my wall,

That I am tall, skinny and pale

That my knees wobble when I walk

And that maybe I need to gain one kilo or two.

They criticised and called me names

They singled me out from the rest

And painted my name with a sin

I find myself with no shame

I forgive but I register it all in my heart.

The letter read:

the tears on her face

Dear my once called love. I write this letter in anger. I am bitter about the decision my brutal heart has taken. I am weeping but you wouldn’t see the teardrops, only the damaged paper will be my witness. I feel there is no need, or a point for us to continue with our love or rather say ‘arrangement’. I enjoyed the times and plays we did. Together, inside and outside the room. I am heartbroken, yet, I feel the need to part ways. With you. My Love. I fear for you though. Because I know that without me you are more or less nothing. You need me, that I do understand. But I can’t be with you. Not anymore. Did I ever love you? That is the question you asked this morning. I couldn’t answer. But now I can. Now I can tell you that I loved each and every day. I loved you with every breath I took. I loved you until I couldn’t love you anymore. And now I love you. Not. My Love.

I’m a blue writer

Madame Writer

 

I’m a broken idol with no words. I write for sinners and the so-called saints. I hustle letters, capital or small. I squirm and round in the book. I feel pages flipping to haunt my vision.  I see colouring pencils of all kinds. They make lines in front of my furrow. Take the pipe of the pen and slipt it in half. Sweep this ink off my desk. I am eerie. I scribble with no hope. I scribble with no time, on my hands. I draw in vain. I sink down in the middle of the page. I close the chapter and I quit

I’m yet,there again

Blue love

My love is not a mountain. It is not hard to get to its peak. You get the right ropes, obviously strong and you get there. My love is not fire. You don’t need any woods or light. You need laughter, pieces of care and light it up with tenderness. My love is no room.

I am in love yet again. I am in love once more. I see his smile in my face. I see his picture in my sleep. I see him day and night. Yes I see him for a short while, a long while. I see him for a while. I smell him. I smell his scent in the air. Oh my god! I see him in every man. I see him. He in me and me in him. I see. Him. He whispers in my ears. His voice is soft and he’s skin is untangles. He’s beautiful. I’m in love. I’m in love yet again. I’m in love once more. I sense his [presence in the middle of the night. I sense his presence a mile away. He’s here in this heart I own. Would he rather own it and I own nothing. Would he rather take good care of me or me take care of him. How should it go? Explain. How should I love him, this time? I shut my eyes and in front of me he stands. My name he calls and my skin he kisses. I shiver. I shiver only in-depth not in width. I shiver. I shiver not to scare whim but for him to feel so much pity for me and hold me. Forever. In his loving arms.

When death sits on my chair

Through death, there's a talking voice

When I am dead and alive no more; could you take that pin of metal and pin it on my hair. Take a bunch of flowers and colour my flair. Sing twinkle-twinkle star until I don’t matter, anymore. Flush down the memories of my smile, my sight and my pride. Keep quiet for a while and hum a hymn of burial. Sing no songs, just walk, and don’t talk. Lie. Lie more about how good I was and that I never sinned. Wish me alive, at least for a while. Take me with you to the grave, and look at me for the last while. Sink me down, and let me swim in the soil of the underground. Leave me there and go home.

Beyond the light

For when you smile, my dimples show

My future is no too bright after all. It’s sandy with shadows of death. It’s carrying hallow promises of no particular law. It’s tiring. It’s glooming teasingly with no season of care, tender and fairness. I love it. I see through the cloudy success a me who has no stop signs but a brighter future than it seems. It scares me. I feel hunger for no particular reason at all. I cry. I laugh. I laugh with yesterday’s laughter. But only louder this time. Can you feel me? Can you touch my tail down there? Can you reach me? I’m high. I’m higher than I ever thought I would be. I can not be touched. I can only be pointed at with those dusking fingers. I smile. I smile after I have walked for a while, miles. I’m here. My future is not too bright after all but brighter than I have ever thought.

Forever a writer

Soul girl in depths of Poetry

 

I’m a broken idol with no words. I write for sinners and the so-called saints. I hustle letters, capital or small. I squirm and round in the book. I feel pages flipping to haunt my vision.  I see colouring pencils of all kinds. They make lines in front of my furrow. Take the pipe of the pen and slipt it half. Sweep this ink off my desk. I am eerie. I scribble with no hope. I scribble with no time, on my hands. I draw in vain. I sink down in the middle of the page. I close the chapter and I quit. I am a blue writer

This is strictly about me

In the meeting of the minds

Biography of Mitta XinindluName is Mitta Xinindlu I am a poet by choice, dancer by nature and opportunist by profession. I write what pleases my ego and I also write what I like. I’m so deep into poetry that if it were a sin…I’d be repeatedly engaging my self to ‘eat’, and repenting never. Poetry is my bread. .. This is not session two…