Mitta Xinindlu Poems

I hear you, The Song.
I believe in you, The Song.

The Song that heals my body.
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I therefore compile this document
In request of so many reasons or replies
Why is it that you say you love me?
Is it the shape of my body
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When you sit in discussion,
Viewing and giving notice to my percussion;
Singing my life,
making it a free style.
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I've seen so much beauty in graves.
A place of absolute peace;
where strain and pain
have no chance to teach.
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My favourite colour is you.
You look good on me;
You multiply me by three.
You're bright, you attract.
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This life is unpredictable.
The people who might seem irrelevant and small to us today
might turn out mightier and greater than us tomorrow.
Because this life is all written somewhere, and
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I am so hard to please.
Being human feels like a fool's tease.
I keep on asking God to prove His power.
He keeps on giving me a chance to wake up with willpower.
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There is loudness in silence.
But when words are dead, the distance
speaks in volumes.
Like in communes,
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The black vines of love
hack the breathing lines on cove.
Our drunkard hearts await;
thirsty for loved arts a crate.
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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.
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