My hair is growing back into a sea
It is about time to butcher my head again
The hair was flowing like water out of my hood in a dream
I woke up with such clarity
For several hours, I existed
But it is creeping back
Wish I knew where it comes from
The air above
Or out of my spine like a faucet
Who turns it off
Who would be willing to blow it all out of my head everyday
I hate combs
There is no style to my hair
It is just a painting of what lies beneath
Dampness is setting in
My body tries to burn it off
A looping cycle
The misty haze is sentient
Or at least I may be
Nothing left to say to this empty room
I'll be one with this mist once again very soon