Bathing in my own hair,
Basking in my own filth,
Remembering, painstakingly,
The roads that I’ve built.
Was that glance purely friendly?
Or was it a mask of contempt?
Memories, haunting me,
As I uncover the truth.

Bathing in my own hair,
Caressing me, tormenting me,
Reminding me of all I’ve lost,
As it flies into the air.
The water flows in and out,
My mood goes up and down.
Life’s rollercoaster is sickening,
My motion sickness, my undoing.
Entangled in the fibers,
Surrounded by liars,
That claimed to be my friend.
Isolationism,
Personal despotism,
All due to a bitter end.

Bathing in my own hair,
My failures cascading.
Basking in my self-worth,
Esteem breaking.
If I lost what little I had,
Perhaps, I’m just not meant to hold,
Friendship in my grasp.
From my experience, it doesn’t last.
The waters ripple,
My tears crippling me.
I wonder, would I have been happier,
If we were never to meet?

Bathing in my own hair,
Tying my wrists to my chest.
Vulnerable as my demons,
Take me to their lair.
They beat me, chastise me,
Critique me and torment me,
Till I’m nothing more than when my friends left me.
Isolationism,
Personal despotism.

Bathing in my own hair,
Watching my pain float around me,
It encircles me, constantly reminding me of my plight.
Is it being too cowardly,
To block myself from the light.
A hermit out on his own;
A lonely monarch who sits on his throne;
A beggar searching for a home;
All of these end up alone.

Bathing in my own hair,
Bound and gagged by my bleeding heart.
I thought I had found my place,
Now I’m stranded back at the start.
Far too late—to reach out now,
Everyone’s floating on their own, separate clouds,
While I remain on the ground,
Contemplating the pain I’ve found.
Yet, bitterly and ironically,
I crave the memories,
Because they remind me,
Of a time when I was happy.
I wash my body in the filth,
Recalling the euphoria.

Bathing in my own hair,
Scrubbing the fabric across my skin.
It burns, the soap is just like acid.
Maybe I don’t wish to be clean,
But to be seen,
And not abandoned repeatedly.

Her hair’s sometimes straight,
but often they are curly too.
I don’t know if it’s natural, or a perm —
doesn’t matter,
for I’m always curled up in her mystery,
and my eyes move straight towards her.

I threw away the Nair
and stopped shaving.

Bye Brazil
So long Landing Strip

Strip–tease...oh please what a joke
There aint gona be no,
de-forest–tation
Do I hear pro-tes-tations of a whole nation
hair craze?
in a daze?
Fanatics about hair?
Yelling and screaming about down there?

Well hell, that's just too **** bad.
cuz I'm going in
an livin in
an growin a
Jungle

So big so wide...
so Free
no more shavin for me.

And what did the men do?
What men?
Where are they?
Guess they are lost in the jungle.
They lovin it in there.

Do you see that?
Fur covered legs
Do you see that?
Arm pit freedom

I stopped shaving
and plucking
and tweezing
No more E-lec-troly
Hey sis!

The hair has started growing
the more FREE I am becoming
No! I don't shave no ******* More
Except for my head.

You can wear the long hair for a while.
See you in the salon.

My natural hair is
curly
but when I look in the mirror
I feel ugly
I grew up hearing my hair was
beautiful
so I shouldn’t do anything to it—and I
believed
that it was sacred
even if it made me unhappy today
Yes, my hair is sacred
but because I decide
when it will be straight
or when it will be curly

You do not need to know what I do
It is a weird question
"What do you do?"
Followed by
"Hi, how are you?"
It is the bullshittery of it all
The nonsense like that of Aqua Net.
Keeping every strand in place girl
Don't you worry
Aqua Net has saved many a day
She is the superhero of the world

I miss you just so much right now!
I want to hug you more and more!
And I’ll remember for a long time
That dark and gentle night ardour.

The sky was like a raven plumage,
A canvas for all stars in whole.
You hugged my shoulders, stroked my hair.
We were engaged to love at all.

And on the roof, as at the sky door,
We peered into the heart of stars.
We met a cart of boltless lightning.
It slipped the voile of love on us.

There was no fear, there was no doubt.
Only the sky and me and you.
It was my unforgettable moment!
You’re here, darling! I love you!

Nineteen and a half.
No job to reflect my adolescent prospects.
The prospects in question cannot be a part of my nationalistic expenses. But worry me to carry my heavier body through Obāchan’s home.
I react like nerves
with every sense I retract the thoughts
The ones I am desperate to share
“This is why I don’t hang out with them often,” to be forgotten,
my relationships turn rotten.
Yet the skin still gleams as if the flesh is fresh.
Is this me? Is this luck?
The boss blames the worker, the worker blames his wife, the wife blames the children and I blame them all.
The screen hits my face with strength
under covers to be undercover.
Poison is my delusion and my mind plays illusions that I am right.
I’ve lost my hair tie.

i stood before the mirror,
pale as a powdered lie,
with strands the colour of fallen empires
and dignity rubbed dry.

the bleach had no mercy,
the dye had no aim —
i emerged from the wreckage
with only myself to blame.

my scalp, a battlefield,
my pride, a powdered wig.
i whispered threats to heaven
with a plastic comb so big.

the townsfolk fled in silence,
the moon refused to rise,
and even my reflection
looked away from my disguise.

somewhere between brass and madness,
i found a kind of grace —
the lord of bad decisions,
with toner on my face.

so let the ships keep sinking,
let the storm winds howl and hiss —
i’m lord cutler beckett, darling,
and i was born for this.

I miss you sadly and so much!
And even if I just don’t know you,
Or maybe I won’t nay find you
And in no case and never lose you.

I miss the words. I miss so much
The words, that never will be spoken,
The dreams, that knotted not on me.
They’ll be fulfilled not us, but someone.

I miss the hands. I miss so much!
They would be able to hug sweetly.
I miss the hair, careless a bit,
And lips… Yes, lips! I miss them really!

I miss their touching, hot and sultry,
Which can just never been delivered.
But even as I never know you,
I’ll love you truly with a quiver.