His head and his body were
Bald as an egg for all to see.
His parents named him Harry
But he did not turn out to be.
As an antonymic masterpiece
His name is rife with humor
But in poor Harry’s opinion
It was taken as a social tumor.

Every joke that would be said,
No matter how crass was made
At work, at play by everyone
Beginning in the seventh grade
When his baby fine blond hair
Began to hide on back of head.
It hurt his feelings to frequently hear
The things his peers all said.

By the time he reached maturity
He learned to accept his fate;
Everyday friends could not resist
Making light of his name and pate!
While it’s human nature all of this
It’s a constantly rather bitter pill,
And though he learned to smile
It kind of hurts his feelings still.

Bare Harry, bald as a shaved baby.
Plenty of tacky hairless jokes to spare
Shouldn’t we cut him some slack maybe
And focus on something besides his hair
Or the obvious lack thereof on his head
And point out his forgiving personality?
But sadly, that is just not the way
Of the reality of the world’s humanity.

Brent Kincaid
4/29/2019

these few presidents
wring disaster from decisiveness
like they're squeezing tar from a sponge.

three heads of state
and not a single solution
except the one that dissolves whatever it touches.

                 billy the kid, did what he did and he
                 died. billy the kid, did what he did
                 and he died. billy the kid did what
                 he died. billy the kid did what he
                 did and he died.
                  
                 nothing
                 to
                 help
                 before
                 he
                 *left

no please,
i like it when you speak to me as if i were, god forbid, human.
i didn't ask for this to happen to me
and i didn't ask for people
to waltz around broken glass and eggshells
as if i were the most delicate of them all

i don't need
hushed whispers and words
stuck between oblivion and physical sound waves
because fear of offending me
clutched at your vocal cords

i know what it feels to be missing a part of myself
and what it means to be holding onto something
that isn't promised to me

i know what it means
to be hiding a part of yourself
for the sake of others

and i plead that you
save yourself the trouble
i've had enough self pity

because now i realize
alopecia
holds you back
from being who you are

it's a safety blanket

it's wishing that you had green eyes
when you were born with brown.

it's as simple as that.

I, myself, have just no time to spare,
To fret, mope, or worry over hair.
But WHY are some compelled to stare?
It's JUST a scalp, so WHAT it's bare?

The year was 1995
I had long hair;
I felt alive.
The hair was lost -
I ceased to thrive.
To accept the loss
First failed but strived.
And in the end,
Well, I survived!