Learn more about other poetry terms
And so are the shambles that make me weak, The brambles and tangles when soft I do seek. They yank and they pull and I'm filled with dread "Mother dear," I beg, "You are hurting my head."
It took a bug flying into my hair To make me realize. A little beetle, Brown, And scared, As I frantically untangles it from my mane. I buzzed way, Barely escaping suffocation
My personality is quiet,
Black and white. The swirl is right. Being interaccial is the way God made me and there aint no changing baby. Curly hair, tan skin why loose when you can win ?