I arise with the sun, and shake free my wild mane.
Thick, long, tendrils of tousled curls grace my head,
just as a crown upon the head of a king.
Its twisted nature only rivaled by the twisted thoughts that cloud the head it adorns.
I wonder if my hair knows that I am lost...
And therefore follows suit by wandering aimlessly in all directions.
A beautiful mess of kinks and coils that I wear proudly as a badge,
given to me by Mother Africa herself.
Proclaiming that I am beautiful.
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: