Crippling and stuttering, hiding
I walk in public
the voice inside me.
Thumping and shuddering
calming down the race inside me,
Watching the world with my eyes
“how do they excel perfection so right?”
Their hair so long and silky
Mine too short and shabby,
I walk around murdering
not someone but Something
affecting no one but me.
Again and again, running
the pointy fingers, throughout my head
trying to settle the hair,
always struggling.
Befriending the devil dressed as an angel,
the machine, clapping my hair in between
stretching my roots strongly as I press,
“sizzle sizzle”, the sound of steam
faded white hues of smoke
disheartening my heart,
I resort to torturing my head, my esteem.
Like a piece of a puzzle,
with a changed head and smooth hair,
now, I fit in the crowd,
in my comfort,
wrapping my uniqueness quietly in a shroud.
Not realising that maybe
my natural hair which is never in place
represents me, who is rebellious
doing my thing, never settling,

oh the sweet irony.


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