You don’t understand these strands,
The coiling, the resistance. The pain.
The combing , the stubbornness. The aim.
To shoot high, to hang low.
The lessons ,the braids and breakage.
The shrinkage and the disappointments.
The strength, frustrating strength.
Inspiring strength, resilience.
All black tangled wool , paths to corn fields
Forget cotton fields because I know damn well that you can’t relate to these strands.
These curls, this magic. My hair.
Wild and unruly
You can’t teach me about rules, I raise rebellious strands.
Creative strands, lazy strands.
All growing under my guidance.
From the soils of my head.
And you can’t touch it with dirty hands.
I’m growing a crown here!