I tie your breath into knots without a doubt
you gotta work it out
you have to break the bond
your voice is a wand
breaking,
cracking,
shaking,
shaking all your hair out 'til you fall to the ground
hear it on the round
then you fall down
jump back up and let it bounce
you gotta pounce
use every ounce
jumping,
grab it,
dumping
dumping all those thoughts out.

I dunno, this was fun to write

Sit
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
Breathe
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
Feel
the tension building up within your spine.
Try
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
Fail
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
Run
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
Fight
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
Lose
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
One.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Ten.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
Thirty.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
Forty.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Fifty.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
Sixty.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
Eighty.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Ninety.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
Hairs
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.

This poem is about my hair condition Trichotillomania (pronounced trick-o-till-o-may-nee-ah). Whilst I do sometimes pull subconsciously, most of the time it is an extremely compulsive urge, which is what this poem addresses.
Here is a link to give you more information on the condition: http://www.trichotillomania.co.uk/about_trichotillomania/diagnosis.htm
Paul Marfil Jun 16

Wind kisses her hair, then
Her nape would sigh
A soft hello.

Tolani Agoro Jun 12

Vines sprout thick at the top of her head
Making way for the beautiful sprouts they bear
An array of colours so vibrant
And textures so different  
Oh how envious we all must be
For no one could foresee
This blessing from the gods
In a calm graceful way
She smiles as she sees her reflection
For she just realised
She grew flowers in her hair

Mallory May 31

I have always hated
Cutting my hair
Any shorter than too long,
But this spring I
Left my locks behind,
And I started to become.

Kee May 23

How long should I sit here and pretend that I haven't wanted to end it for 17 years?
How long should I say 'I'm good' when I was just crying the bathroom ten minutes ago?
How long should I stare in the mirror and say 'Maybe I'll cut my hair tomorrow' knowing deep down I won't go for the next six months.
How long should I avoid the inevitable?
How long is too long?
How long can I look at this world, this society, and think that this is the type of world I want to live in?

Vexren4000 May 22

Rabbits scurry and frolic,
Always living in perpetual peace, and Fear,
They know something,
Of the cruelty, this world has to offer.
They have seen comrades rendered piles of meat,
Upon the hot barren asphalt street.
No longer able to frolic and play,
With their friends of the day.  
As they have become,
A mummified disc of hair,
And bone.

Shivendra Om May 21

Your hair–
seeweeds floating
on my blue

by Luca Shivendra Om
(C) Luca Shivendra Om
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