Mitta Xinindlu Poems

Yesterday I was given time.
I got to know it its prime.
The ticking sign was there;
it identified my inner scares.
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My fellow African,
when you look at another African,
what do you see?
Do you not see the reflection of yourself?
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Black people,
you must learn to love other black people again.
The past made you see each other as competitors and enemies.
But I can assure you that today is a new day.
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Because I'm a Black Woman:
They don't see me;
They don't believe me;
They don't give me a fair trial;
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How can you not appreciate the beauty in your black skin?
Why do you misjudge its value?
Your skin neither cracks nor burns underneath the sun.
Your skin compliments its rays; and in its heat, you stun.
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I'm a writer who heals.
I nurse the wounds of others through my messages.
My words are ointments, bandages, and massages.
My paper is a bed for wounded souls.
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I stepped out of the box
because I'm a woman who breaks locks.
I break glass ceilings too;
the sky knows my flair, boo.
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I'm writing you a poem;
but the lights will soon be out in five minutes.
Wow! I'm writing it in foreign;
so, I hope you'll embrace the intention of the syntax.
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Every underdog has a right to be heard.
Women are underdogs in a man's world.
Children are underdogs in the adults' world.
Let's not even discuss the issues of race, religion, disability, and sexuality.
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NOBODY taught me how to swim.
So, I swam and followed the rivers,
hoping that I'd end up in the ocean; the calm seas.
To see some dolphins and the colourful fish.
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