Poetic minds are islands often found
In common reaches of the status quo
And in remote and deeper waters
Of vox humana in muted undertow.

Wound I
against the forces of nature
this tap
through which a steam
of nature's brewed drink,
measured hot as I desired.
It loved my skin,
steaming upwards,
its ambiental tentacles
towards my chin.

The devil besought my thoughts
to torment.
The sounds of men calling my name,
lynching my conscience undeservedly;
the scapegoat of the moment.
These gates were open;
the devil smeared in
through the tap,
flowing through brews.

I wound fast
against those that call.
Thence did they stop:
the lynching, the calling,
beseeching, praying my falling.
I fled my bathtub,
escaping the mob,
escaping the devil
in my bathtub.

I want to cut my hair.
Chop it all off and make it into something beautiful.
I need to cut my hair.  They say things like
"Wear your hair down more." "You'd be so pretty if you let your long hair down."
I DO NOT LIKE LONG HAIR.
I have never liked long hair.
I seek liberation, from this metaphorical suffocation.

Please, just let me cut my hair.

I want to be the cool girl, who gets all the other girls. The skinny one. The pretty one. The handsome one. The stylish one. The gay one. The tattooed one. The one with short hair.

I want to have short hair.