A Beauitful Poem that brought much insight to my life, and I'm thankful

IT GREW OUT OF YOUR HEAD, CHILD (c) 2007

Overjoyed, and oh so thrilled I gotta clap;
I took the natural route and I'm proud of my naps.
Give me dap, no mishap spare me the hot-comb,
greasy domes sometimes brutalize with verbal stones.
People why scrutinize and act belligerent
because I'm indifferent to the volume of your disregard
sis, since my skin is thick and unmarred,
it bothers me not, so I don't flip my lid or my lip
as proud nappy sistah wearing naps like an armament
in a battle meant to shear my confidence.
My knots are mad tight in this fight
a feast for the eyes, kin, feel my might!
I am not longing to be a Barbie that's insane and trite
and straight up stupid, so this curly cutie did her duty
and worked the roots right!
So save the spite in your hair-attack —
stop the hating black-on-black, but you need some tact
because you're looking for a smack ---

and here comes the blow that will straight-up sort ya
I'm not rolling with the punches, I'm talking about water;
hear my hearty laughter as I stand and I watch ya,
cover your head and hide, but all joking aside -
what happened to your pride?
Don't tell me it resides in that front-lace weave,
I just can't fathom that, or am too naïve?
My vibe is back to nature, but
some brothas and sistahs they ain't feeling it,
nor having it, they give me much flack
like they were born "kink-o-phobic"
a stupid habit that must come from crack-smoking
if I utter "black beauty", people laughing like I'm joking;
"Ah man, black and kinky ain't cute!" so sayeth the sooth,
but I reject the lies and get back to the truth,
look for the hard-core proof that are woven in the plot
kidnappers washed our brains self-revulsion's what we got.
I'm sorry to berate, but on our hair, we vacillate
and impede our progress like a brake, because we can't
appreciate our own beauty and think on this,
other communities own the industry
and we allow them all to collect the loot off our insecurity.
Some people cut their eye when they see me walk on by,
but I look crazy fly, that's the only way I stride
so, sis, stop the questions in your gawk,
yes, it's all real -- these locs are all mine.
I don't mean to brag, ain't no drag, it's a hook

to my people wearing more damn grease than a fry-cook,
because it's the latest look they saw
in a beauty book on somebody else's pate,
that they try to emulate
— their roots they desecrate
which just seems like straight-up hair hate…
so shake off the dead weight and take a ride with me
on this happy-nappy freedom train
arouse your fried brain and celebrate!



Makeela B. Amani