I met you in this crowd.
We never said a word to each other.
But the eye contact was electric.
You never parted your lips to speak.
But your soul did.
It was calling to me.
It is okay.
I can hear you loud and clear.
It is like I am one with you,
before the introduction.
It is as if something was pulling me,
letting me know that it is you.
You are the one.
Do not let them go away from your grip.
The only grip I have on you
is the way we stare into our eyes.
But which one of us will make the move first?
I was always told my hair texture was bad.
So here comes the white cream.
The white cream is chemical hell.
I can smell it as I write this.
As I got older I realized the white cream took out more than my curls and coils that the Man upstairs scribbled for me.
It took away my temple hairs. It took my chances of having hair past my shoulders.
But the white cream never took my curiosity.
My never ending curiosity of what I would look like if the white cream never took my real hair from me.
My real hair, which was, is, and never will be “bad.”
It’s stereotypically said
that poets see beauty in everything.
Everything as in
the many ups and downs that life throws.
To a certain extent
it can be a true.
beauty itself can be hidden.
And I wish to not find it.
Then it just shows up.
I see the lights of beauty
show up when I don’t want to see it.
It’s as if it forces its way
to be in plain sight,
to show off in my face.
Beauty shines of optimism.
This lets me know that
whatever I am going through
it will be overcome.
— The End —