Karawe

Kinky they say, 

Too curly to be cared about.

 

But the coil is my culture;

Constantly defined unattractive,

 

Under-appreciated efforts,

Tragically tainted tries.

 

A constant pain within my eyes,

And many unheard desperate cries.

 

As my securities die,

And my curls fry,

 

I look up to the sky.

As I cry and wonder why, 

 

Why does society have to lie?

This poem is about: 
Me
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