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Poems On / About HAIR  10/26/2014 12:56:54 AM
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Best Poems About / On HAIR
 
 
 
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  81.     

Abandoned

Abandoned
The little girl with the curly hair
The little girl with a burden to bear
The little girl whose eyes shine with sorrow
The little girl whose mothers' cruelty has left her hollow
She tried to scream, to get away
But the wounds of this world kept her
So she stayed silent
Did not try to wretch herself free from the abuse
She tried to blend, to stay unfocused
To ward off the blows, the scolding and tears
The little girl with curly hair
The little girl with a ratty dress
The little girl who forgot how to cry
The little girl that wishes to die
She tried to hide, to avoid detection
But found she was
So she did what most would do
She prayed and begged for safety, for a love she never had
That night her mother found her took her by the roots of her curly hair
The mother hit and pillaged, tearing away all hope
The little girl with the curly hair cried out and pled for life
But mother saw it fit to cut her hair and beat her bloody
The little girl with curly hair lies dead in her grave
Wondering where her prayer went
 
Baylor B...

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  82.     

Rihana

I am coming back
with the girl who lured
the city with her song

I grabbed her
As she oozed down
from the disco party
And just like her painted hairs
I yearned to be free
while rooted in her..

the strands of her hair used to
dance with all the rogue winds..

I have to steal
the menstrual blood of spring
to redden her lips
that were charred
by the kiss of summer

There is only a single room
in the thatched house
when I returned with the girl
who lured the city with her song

Sitting on its steps
that are plastered dry with cow dung
May be I will blacken her hair
with medicated oil.
During noontimes,
while I comb
and count her hairs one by one,
I will put to death
the lice I find there
and will claim that her body
was solely my own home

While thus crossing boredom
once, when I find a grey hair
from her head
Maybe I will pluck them all out
without her knowing it
When she comes to know of it
Maybe she will paint
those strands of her hair,
But never will she attempt
to lure the cities again.
 
Sujeesh nm92

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  83.     

The Best Way to Comb the Blonde Hair

</>Years is the worst unforgivable hairstylist

He cuts my hair short;

shorter than our short story..

He cuts my hair off;

off the last relationship..

Now it's 4 sharp in the afternoon,

i, wooden, seize the comb, wooden.

Mirror does not tell lies

age can only climb high.

the comb runs through my hair

my hair flows through somewhere

more strands of hair are gone..

more worries are born

I forget how I combed hair

back in those years..

A young blonde is coming..

and i gonna ask her this question.
 
Garland Jodie Jeen

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  84.     

whisky complexioned hair wig

I WAS BORN with a thick shock of curly hair,
silky strands of light brown cascading down my scalp,
broad outlines of eyebrow fringe,
they were my pride, cuddled on infinite occasions by my
mother,
glistening in sunshine like pure black shoe polish
paint,
caressing minute regions of my skull in breeze blowing
with high velocity,
mingling once in a while with the delicate periphery
of my inverted eyelash,
sighted as a puffed bunch of dark cushion by all in
close proximity,
I always kept my hair shampooed and meticulously
clean,
sobbed hysterically in private interiors of my room,
when a cluster of school mates harmlessly plucked a
few,
I was obsessed with the concept of evergreen hair
growth,
slept all night with tight fitted shower cap clinging
to my garden of hair.

Those whirlwind days of youth had now faded,
unwanted vigils of old age had crept in at amazing
speeds,
bald patches of skin now sparkled in sunlight,
resembled rich quality pure wax in pearly light of the
moon,
the hair which once inhabited my scalp,
now lay dumped, perhaps under stagnant waters of the
city sewer,
repetitive attempts of washing,
scrubbing, oiling, applying medicinal balm had
proven futile,
I had finally succumbed to the tyranny of fate,
nevertheless I still had fluffy fibers of ant red
hair,
which neither budged nor moved an inch,
projecting pompously from the artificial
plastic of my whisky complexioned wig.
 
Nikhil Parekh

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