It’s not for you

Hair. poem

Hair 

Soft strands decorate our brain
Depth of colour, Illuminates 
the meaningful vessels
Lines shape and shift
Clothes can lift my dimmer switch
-Lighten up my engagement
Soft fabrics 
No itch 
Just presence
Box dyes of Romanticism, Kick


Dungarees beautify
Loud self-expression
of unrestraint 
Messy braces, unstrapped
The pattern of unearthed potential 
Rumble
into my emotional landscape
Lighting up my internal
Not for the ones that approve, think 
Absolutely Nothing, of me -
Or judge 
My insides knowing 
Bounce gets tapped 
Less about getting ripped
I’m me, casually
in Technicolor 

It is what it is 



Shrugging, carelessly
It’s just a matter of fact 
Time after time 
Mood-drawings feature
and clip in with covering’s 
creative paint 
Representation, letting 
out my lung’s cauldron
-at Last 


It’s the stretching, actualising 
of my imagination 
Variety’s actualisation 
The tantalising explanation of 
every root that past
Mind, body - clasped 


Buttons of unventured territory 
Opening, to my body celebrated
Shrinking my meaning 
Voiceless, undesired
(they assume I desire adoration) 
A me, unclapped 
For the ventricles, holding 
wiring, intricately 
The pattern’s warmingly, exact 


My shields are precisely me 
Why does it look like a ‘statement’
to you 
Who cares?! 
for my, interior, fact
There’s no message for you
Roots shout 
Egos screaming, that I did it
As if, I, unknowingly broke 
something, never made

This one-sided, pact 



Why can’t I just be enough for me?
I couldn’t possibly be climbing 
into my hungry 
and lining up an exquisite dessert,
You grow unknown realities 
When I was born for the growth
and alignment 
Tasting without ‘ladylike’ ‘tact’


Exploration, unexplored
In each stage’s busy minds
I can’t do that anymore 
Hiding, would feel deplorable 
An extra sharp piece of creativity 
tangs
Wrapping textured garments, sour
in a way that I layered my mind 
Loosening the grip 
on sticky patriarchal hands 

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Photo by Bartek Garbowicz on Unsplash

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Skirts, free-flowing 
My skin isn’t there for, any, you 
The breeze lifts and 
quantifies my revelry 
I don’t feel box-contained
Dressing games in joyful 
absolution 
I am not selfish!
Fingertips on a controller
That painted what was labelled 
as failure 
Nail brushes fumigating the, demanded,
automation 
Groaning, for every stage
of fighting
I’m not living for you, tamed 

Photo by Abbie Newton on Unsplash

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Photo by Olena Bohovyk on Unsplash

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