Cast Iron comb held freedom between its teeth Release me from these naps- it’s straightness I seek Praying I don’t get burned and have to pay a price Just to get someone to notice and say my hair looks nice It’s blowing in the wind just as smooth as you please Fingers don’t get stuck; they flow through with ease Walking down the street I catch a few winks and stares I’m flowing with my hot combed hair without a care Thunder rolls and lightning strikes...cumulus clouds gather Umbrella in the car😳, this is no laughing matter! Minutes pass and strangers still smile as they stroll by I couldn’t muster the energy to figure out why My hair, no longer straight, must be ***** and knotted by now I looked in the mirror and still gathered compliments but didn’t know how I thought for a moment about how carefree I felt as the sun came into view I realized I’d just been released from those sad old hot comb blues. Shay
There's history in my hair please don't touch, handle with care. It's the same as this perfect pigment, this melanin I wear Richly rooted in my blood Whether dark or fair
Sun kissed and kinked in bliss More love for my 'rough n tough Afro puff' She shines like the Sahara sun She smells like the salt of the Gold coast sea. Theres a hint of the bittersweet seed of the cocoa tree. Feels like the pillow that holds all your dreams with the dry Harmattan wind brushing against your cheek She'll whisper secrets of the motherland.... If you get close enough
She holds like Mina Curls with pride Falls with grace and integrity. Stubborn like the struggle of the ones before me. Gravity defying masterpiece that's just a single piece of me, a reminder of my ancestry. It's my glory, my covering
Don't take it lightly, don't misunderstand, I'm a work of art so please peep but just don't touch.
there is attitude as strong as my own in these kinks and these coils, my Afro has a mind of its own. she stands tall when she wants, shrivel up when she’s cold. sometimes shy, she is not a people person. my Afro only communicates with other Afros. she ain’t stingy but she **** sure don’t like to be touched. don’t you try to sweet talk her when she’s in a rush. only like a wash & oils. sometimes gel and finger coils. she’s amazing, i love my twa.
So many strange fruits, In the streets. Black bodies living in the sewers Africans hanging from the apple trees, Used needles on concrete, Blood has a new home build with tears, It's sad to say, It's sad to say, Children are born here. They wonder why life became so rotten.
I sit with my afro, tall and round like the trees I sit with my afro between my mother's knees And I cry. She thinks it's because she pulled my hair I let her feel guilty but really that's not fair Because it's you. So as my mother glides the comb through my onyx curls Your web of lies begins to unfurl And all at once you were my world But now you're nothing. My mother's hands twist my hair into braids Partings in more ways than one have been made Memories like my brother's fade But not for you. Yours are stronger than my mother's hands Yet as soft as my Indian strands And how I wish I could get the clippers and shave my head and watch my memories of you fall away But I can't.
So as my mother braids my hair down my back I remember you and try to forget the fact That you ran your hands through this Raven hair Shielded my now tear streaked face from the frozen air Forget that you loved the coarse strands As much as the Indian; soft in your hands So I lock away these memories with each braid And try to prove to myself that I'm more afraid Of losing my afro than losing you.
I tell myself that it's my mother pulling that makes me cry But you and I, Know that's not true.