On Fleek



You don't know just how

often I mistake my Hair

for something living.

Hairs can be a strange

silhouette, if I turn too

quick. Then, ants, coiled.

My Hair plays so much

Games. Like, stop playing. Ain’t no

body got the time.

A child with a head

full of Black People Hair is

Two children, I swear.

Remove them from me

and watch all things, black, revert

back, as they do. See?

Be weary of the

Delilah eyeing those drapes

Covering your mind.

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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