Naomi Hurley Jul 13

I like to change the color of my hair
Every few weeks
My five year plan gets crossed through
Before one tally can leave the queue
Routine is a bore
Monotony is a slow death
The Naomi Doldrums
Strike again.

I've lived in three different states
In three different years
Across the country and back around
I've never been one for
"Settling down"

Yet somehow...

I trusted you
To put on this ring
To make a plan
Involving more than just me
Being tied down was a fear
But I've never felt more free

Routine isn't so bad
Monotony is a dream
If I get to love you like this
In a way before unseen

What a new style of living
Of which I was so unaware
But I cannot promise you consistency...
                        with the color of my hair.

James Rhine is the love of my life, and that will never change.
A H S Jul 11

Do you notice
My presence?

Do you notice
The way I sneak
A look at your face
Every five minutes?

Do you notice
When I walk in a room
And immediately search
For your face?

Do you notice
My heart thumping in my chest
When I am near you?

Do you notice
The way I smile
When you talk?

Do you notice
They way my body aches for
Your presence?

Do you notice
How I light up
When you walk in the room?


I notice
The way your
Golden hair stands

I notice
Your towering shoulders
Slumped
When you are sad

I notice
Your beautiful smile
When you laugh

I notice
Your face when you talk
Each muscle listening to your
Every command

I notice
The sweat on the
Bottom of your neck
Lying beneath the
Newly trimmed hair
After you play
On the court

I notice
The way you seem uncomfortable
In your own skin

I notice you
Do you notice me?

Still a draft.
Xander B Jul 9

I met a girl who puts her hair up with a pen.
But before thinking, "that's an odd thing to do,"
I lended her one of mine so I could try to see her face, now uncovered.

That beautiful face.

That beautiful girl.

Sprung to the road
                   Had coffee in the moonlight

Her, photographing,
                              The strap pulling her hair in an exquisite way
                              On her knees like a tiny elf
                              Illuminated by yellow street candles,

It was a summer night and the wind was gentle.

It was an odd night
                 In the odd same city as always
                             Oddly comfortable.

The coffee left a bitter taste

Yet the car drove us sweet and joyful
                    Throught the yellow painted night.

july 5, 2017
1:20 a.m.
Poetic T Jul 4

Loose weavings suffocated
      her breath...
  
That inanimate object of fear.

Glanced her last breath
                      statically smiling....

I hate porcelain dolls , give me the creeps
Spanky Jul 3

My hope
is the wind
two hands
hair tear

alan Jun 21

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
What I Feel Jun 19

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
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