somewhere in distant
horizons breathes my muse.
dawn comes to me in a dream.
while the sun's early rays
he widens his soft brown eyes, he smiles…
darkness hands me my landscape
in silence as i breathe, staring,
my heart is carried along this imaginary line.
as he sips his cup,
warm within this daylight glory,
the morning adores him and he smiles…
a glimmer, a faint hint of light i see
of grapefruit bubbles and raspberry tea,
like fireflies on the midnight hill.
he strides his fingers across the curtains,
running his hands through his hair, sighing softly, gazing away at
blue morning grandeur skies, and he smiles…
pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
across the distance, we are gazing at the same sun,
and he smiles…
Gray like the clouds
So kind and warm
Or they project a million thunderstorms
Green like trees
So straight and so long
But they shed away when everything goes wrong
Brown like the dirt
So colourful and uneven
Or gray and blank, without a crack for breathing
Blue like the sea
So soft and smooth
Or frantically shifting and heavily grooved
Clear like the air
All short and matching
Or long and jagged, clawing and scratching
When you ask if I'm okay,
of course I tell you I'm fine.
I want to get high with you again.
Because the last time, we started getting
And I miss that very much.
I miss the way you held me.
and ran your fingers through my hair.
Until our friends walked in.
And we had to stop
TO HAIR OR NOT TO HAIR
THAT IS THE QUESTION
WHATS WITH TRUMPS HAIR
I JUST HAVE TO MENTION
IS IT FOR REAL OR
IS IT JUST A WIG
THE PRESIDENTS BEAUTIFUL RUG
LETS DANCE A JIG
I want to cut my hair.
Chop it all off and make it into something beautiful.
I need to cut my hair. They say things like
"Wear your hair down more." "You'd be so pretty if you let your long hair down."
I DO NOT LIKE LONG HAIR.
I have never liked long hair.
I seek liberation, from this metaphorical suffocation.
Please, just let me cut my hair.
I want to be the cool girl, who gets all the other girls. The skinny one. The pretty one. The handsome one. The stylish one. The gay one. The tattooed one. The one with short hair.
I want to have short hair.
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Where there was something,
Now there is nothing:
A glade in the forest
Is all that remains.
The woodland of youth
No serum or tonic
Could Regaine* its flourish.
Sometimes, I run my fingers
Through the ghost
Of what was there.
I am, of course, speaking
Of my phantom hair.