Poems about hair



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№ 1209981

With Flowers in Her Hair

I see your arms
I see the cuts
Please stop the harm
I know it's hard
But your body will be forever scarred
I need you to understand I care
And I know it's not fair
But one day
You'll have Flowers in Your Hair
Hair that will rest about your face
Not one thing out of place
Lying in all your grace
I see the fake smile you put on
I see the pain that's foregone
I see your posts
I know they're ghosts
Ghosts that haut you from your past
But I know this can't last
You're strong
You don't belong
With Flowers in Your Hair
I know you're overcome with despair
But you need to take care
Because your life is a prize
And you should be happy you're alive
I hope to see you make huge strives
Please stay alive
I don't want to have to see Her
**With Flowers in Her Hair


flowers,  hair.

Author: Abigail Madsen
+0-
Date: 07/04/2020


№ 1209237

Hair

I'm a slave to my hair, my hair is a construct of ego, ego is a construct of superego, superego is a construct of id and id begs for release -
Water and space and light and room to live free from context, ravenous and unsatisfied, I reach stalemate on the come up and surrender unconditionally on the comedown, I'm getting sick I'm getting sick I belong in jail, I belong in an elsewhere that never manifests except in the moments half awake between waves of sleep and dreams, and waking light on skin I can't recognize, did Christ recognize his own skin on the cedar? Could he tell his body was holy slick with blood and the lashes of whips and nails driven deep into hands? Could he be honest about his situation then, and if not, who among us can be honest? Who among us has not sunk our teeth into something unreal and sweet? I want this, I crave this kind of waste, shot up with suicides and Americana, what is more American than apathy? Don't you agree? Don't you see you're just like me? I want a new way, I want pure energy. I want something so raw it bleeds in my hands. I want distant shorelines and lines of demarcation and I want to run full speed into something all night and never get there, aesthetic and substance, fighting for power over two guitars and a drum beat and a voice, droning out platitudes about forgiveness and an abstract sense of love, I don't resist anything in this way but rather become submerged in it, allow it to roll and crash over me as long as my breath holds, fire a rifle at the sun and call it a small victory but phyrric because it took more out of me than I'm willing to admit, and for nothing,
I'm coming unstuck, America you're coming unstuck with me, I address you as judge and jury and executioner when we both know I am guilty too, I deserve that mercy seat as much as you and I can't look you in the eyes anymore because we look too much alike, who pulled the trigger, who gave the order, who payed the taxes, is this blood on my hands? We've both built our egos on an idea of beauty that doesn't hold up to scrutiny, but the clinic is all full up tonight run those tests tomorrow, find out where it went wrong and smother it

Take the poet out of the voice, what is left?
What happens when we force honesty for qualitative judgement?
What happens to an art form when we force it to dance for us?
What does it become?
Is this a process of bastardization or a fulfillment of prophecy?
Take the poet out of the poem, what remains?
I want to know if this will outlive us, if we became Prometheus martyrs for something or nothing, or a story on someone else's walls, in someone else's heart, in something not so easily killed,
Or are we jerking off into a void? And if so, is that wrong if it works? What price is too high for honesty of expression? How much is too much?
This pen wants to die,
This notebook wants to die,
What have I done to them?


hair.

Author: Tyler King
+0-
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1205070

Inside Her Hair

She Lies In her Head
Whispers Words left unsaid
Never Thinks about the past
Just the thought of a new life
Damaging everyone, she doesn ґt Care
All she feels is unhappy
I feel alive, she feels dead
It's no one's fault but hers
Take me back to your paradise
Loose Those ponytails and
Dance with your hair
Life aint simple shit
"But try to make it forth living", they said.
I try... I try...


hair,  inside.

Author: Katherine Guerrero
+0-
Date: 02/04/2020

№ 1204561

To The Queen With Midnight Hair

Trailed on the edge of your dress train
Along for an elegant ride but never there
Caught a glimpse of the face of royalty
Hung the portrait upon the walls of my mind
An era ago.

True it sways if the structure quakes
And yet it has never fallen out of line
Your throne sits, cobwebbed and emptied
Awaiting a magnificent resurrection.


hair,  midnight,  queen.

Author: б—©б‘Ћб‘Ћб—©б’ЄIб”•б•®
+0-
Date: 02/04/2020


№ 1197021

Bear Hair Trail (The Magic Lookout)

Fern-laden trails
Wind around up
Under the chestnuts
Next to babbling brooks,
To a special place
Laced with magic,
The lookout where
Ten million eyes have seen
The blue settle over the ridges,
& I hear the ghosts of canines
In my sweet memories crying,
Barking into the gentle breezes
That once kissed our faces,
While your tongues lapped
The cool country air
& chased horse flies.


bear,  hair,  lookout,  magic,  trail.

Author: Jonny Angel
+0-
Date: 26/03/2020

№ 1195476

LOVELY FAIR HAIR.

I see Fay's old man
Arguing with the baker
In the Square

The baker's horse
Eats from a nose bag
Unconcerned
About the raised voices

What's up
With your old man?
I ask her

She stands next to me
On the balcony
Looking down

He thinks
The baker's a Jew
And says she doesn't
Want no Jesus killer
Handling his bread

But it's the same baker
We've always had

I know but you know
My dad once he gets
An idea he follows it
Through to the end

I watch
As the two men argue

The horse eats away
A crowd gathers

Why take it out
On the baker
He didn't even
Know Jesus?
I say

Fay looks embarrassed
And bites
Her finger nails

He's like that
If he thinks anyone
Had anything to do
With the Crucifixion
He's on their case

We watch
As the baker
Shrugs his shoulders
And strokes
His horse's neck

Fay's old man
Walks away
Pointing his finger

Best hide
She says
If he sees me
Talking to you
And thinks I've
Been watching him
He'll have ago
At me and you

So we move along
The balcony
And crouch low
Down by the wall

We hear her old man
Coming up
The concrete stairs
Moaning still
His voice echoing
Along the balcony

But Jesus was a Jew
I whisper
And so was his mother

She puts a finger
To my lips
And says

I know
(in a low whisper)
But Dad doesn't think
That way

I look at her
Crouching there
Her blue eyes
And lovely fair hair.


fair,  hair,  lovely.

Author: Terry Collett
+0-
Date: 24/03/2020


№ 1193046

Black Hair

Your physical form so personified your very nature, that to gaze upon your body was to fall into the void that is your very essence. I dared not gaze too long, lest I fall so deep that I could not escape, yet part of me wished to dive head first and be utterly consumed by you. It is this turmoil that you arose within me that caused me to love you as I did.

I speak of you as though you are something past, something to be reviewed, and yet I feel that you are still with me, and these words resonate within you - and all the while you long for more. That I might penetrate your soul outside the confines of time and space excites you, my Goddess, and it makes me feel as though I am God. It brings me joy to witness your pleasure.

Through it all we know that this is a game, but a fleeting moment, yet that darkness we see between the closing and opening of the eye that blinks for us is filled with light. As I think of you I feel as though I become you, it is as though I occupy you; I become you. I feel your features as my own, I feel your thoughts and your feelings as my own. In this moment I possess you, yet you are like change in my pocket. Long might you remain there, my fingers moving over you spontaneously, only to one day be given away without a moment's thought.

I think of what could have been, but know that if it had been, we would not have what we do now. We have nothing; I have everything; you have everything.


black,  hair.

Author: Roma Carlo
+0-
Date: 22/03/2020

№ 1192564

Feels like rain in my hair

It has been too long since I don't write anything.
The words are spinning in my head, day and night, but they don't seem to find the correct order to flow through my hands.

It's 2 am, it's raining and I realize that we, humans, are just like the rain.
There are some cloudy days when only a teardrop or two fall from us and then the sky looks bright again.
Other days are a little more rainy, just enough to form a little puddle in the ground.
But there are days that we create a storm and we crash violently against a wall and there are thunders in our eyes, rivers in our floors, tornadoes in our heads.
In the end it's all about the rain and the conditions of our skies.
We are not humans. We are rain.


feels,  hair,  rain.

Author: Mariana Seabra
+0-
Date: 22/03/2020

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