With pastel colours in her hair and a dazey, far off stare,
It was more than she could bare yet she never seemed to care.
She'd try to polarise and she'd soon realise
Her hair was her only guise, the thing she'd least despise.
You'd think that hair meant nothing, but to her it was certainly something,
Something not so disgusting, and that's just the thing;
She couldn't actually care less, but her head is such a mess,
That her only relief from stress is something so reckless -
She'd found she'd no control, and she was all alone,
Feeling so unknown, she wanted to be whole,
So she dipped her hair in paint, she tried to remain quaint,
And as her scars grew faint, she'd found her self restraint.
YOU ARE READING
An Amalgamation of Words
PoetryI'm almost as bad at writing descriptions as I am at writing poems, but at least I tried. Sharing my inner turmoil, one poorly worded sentence at a time.
