Poetry Poem by Mitta Xinindlu

Poetry is neither life nor soul.
It comes to life when it is no longer a definition.
It is a formation of words creatively stringed together.
Poetry is not the song or music that you feel.
But the rhythm to that, that, there, and there.
Poetry is formed and established upon the beliefs of a few hearts.
It is a collection of words with a hidden meaning that has come into existence.
Failure or the weak have no power to defeat Poetry.

Poetry is my name, my life, and my soul.
It is the excitement and satisfaction I get when its words arouse me.
Giving to me intimacy, making love.
Poetry goes as deep as the pain does to my heart.
It excitingly and unceasingly flows with blood in my veins,
with neither shame nor pity.
It covers my nakedness, nonetheless.
Poetry finds the fear in me and exposes without shame.
It sympathises with me not.
Yet, I never fall.

It is the collection of words that I drip,
the flesh that I wound,
The mind that I bruise,
but mostly the forgiveness, to me, I give.
It is my weapon which I use to cry when in darkness.
Yes! To weep.


It is my level of balance,
my sane state of mind.
When rain or thunder cease,
Poetry will continue to live.
Proven that will be.