Watch as my hair coils up like that paper you balled up to dispose of.
Just like my hair society throws out the option of wearing natural, so we pay money to feed our appearance but not our bodies.
I refuse to feel guilt of my heritage.
I wear it proudly on my head because when all the money's gone, the mirror reflects what you were born with.
Natural is beautiful but we weren't taught that.
Long straight hair was put on black dolls like they were artificially assembled.
Bought by the parents who are blind to the fact that they are saying it's ok to ignore our ethnicity.
I wanna see afros because our generation lacks the values of the old school.
Thick and nappy roots is where we origin.
Horse tails are meant for animals but humans are mammals, so I guess were included.
Excuses like this is what thrives on our wallets.
Have enough money for that Remy but not a dime in your pocket.
Dry on money but your hair is laid.
If you wore your hair like me, you'll be happy with the trade.
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Comments about this poem (Hair by Amanda Pierce )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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