My curls, full and voluminous, I treasure
Each one tells a story.
People flock to touch,
Grasping them like gold,
They ask: “How did you get them such?”
“Are they natural?” Some scold,
In a world full of fakes, that hits like a punch.
“Yes!” I reply with pride,
My curls are my mane, grabbing them, I scrunch,
Jealousy can slide!
My curls are my shield;
They mask my doubt, comparisons
Much profit they yield!
You can tell a lot from my curls:
When I am tired and lazy,
When I treat them like 'my girls,'
When I'm sassy and crazy.
When they’re not washed for weeks,
My mental health radar
Send me obvious tweaks -
“Don’t disconnect, come back, savour,
Reconnect with yourself and the world,”
My curls are my most significant feature;
My crown of glory.

The Same Table

We are all sitting
At the same table.
Some of us have more food,
                               more guns,
                               more oil,
                               more everything.
Some of us will laugh more,
                     will cry more,
                     will sigh more,
                     will feel more.
Some of us will die young,
                      will die old,
                      will die willingly,
                      will never live properly at all.
Some of us wear red,
                     wear blue,
                     wear black,
                     wear all the colours of the rainbow,
Some of us have light skin,
                     have dark skin,
                     have smooth skin
                     have scars criss-crossing our bodies,
But none of us
Sit high enough
          To look down
     On anyone.

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

I haven't wrote in quite a while,
So I thought I'd make this song,
But it's possible I've lost my style,
And my rhyme schemes gone all wrong.

The cadence is no longer there,
And the melody's gone flat;
Iambic's left without a care,
And this poem's turned to tat.

But perhaps it doesn't matter
Just as long as I have fun;
Though my words may clunk and clatter,
I'll be happy when I'm done.

**** the fens and all they hold
(Which isn't very much).
**** the lack of things to do–
The emptiness and such.

**** the loneliness I feel,
And **** the people too!
**** the lack of anything
There is to be or do.

**** the brown and muddy fields,
And **** the constant rain.
**** the price it costs escaping
Here by bus or train.

**** the way the nightlife ends
At about 1 A.M
**** anyone who disagrees
(Especially **** them!).

**** the lack of places
It would be fun to be,
And– since I'm now a part of it–
I guess also **** me!

to be a human
is to hide
but I'm a creature
who soaks in light

feeling light
as I sit in the memories
finding the peace within them
and setting aside what doesn't serve me

the swerve in me
where I didn't think there was
deserving in me
has calmed to a sway
as clouds part open
as my perspective shifts
as spirits lift up
and far out of me

a single soul to dwell within
this vessel of mine in which I can hide
only within the mind, my thoughts
everything within my eyes, my heart

a swan slowly swims

across her proportionate

lake.

extends her neck across

it.

nods her head, without

drying off--& disappears.