black hair
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Kinky they say,
Too curly to be cared about.
But the coil is my culture;
Constantly defined unattractive,
Under-appreciated efforts,
Tragically tainted tries.
Pardon me while I speak from my roots
By this, I mean the beginning of my hair follicles
So excuse me if my words sound twisted or dark by nature
If you catch my drift.
Joined and denounced by many
Something came back to me today
As I sat near the window and watched the sky turn grey.
It drizzled then began to pour
And the wound in my healing heart became an open sore.
Once upon a time,
in a tower- tall, far and kept away
lived Rapunzel,
a secret princess in her day
Her father, the King
made a mistake he could not take back
Today my pick won’t go farther than three inches
into this jungle.
I could straighten it, but that would take too long,
leaving me with only exhausted arms and a smoky bathroom.
Black people, like paint swatches, come in an array of shades. We can be a deep, rich mahogany, a creamy, smooth caramel, a bold, mysterious ebony, or even a blend of the three.
