Combing through your hair slowly, strong, long dark locks that leave everyone’s eyes locked,
You think nothing of it, sliding your comb then your fingers through your thick strands,
Not too neat, but flowing just so in soft ripples down your bony back, slow motion footage catching every perfect image,
And you, carelessly with a slim finger, part your hair perfectly, the straightforward pattern of your scalp displayed,
Your incuriousity, almost an atrocity, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and you hardly behold yourself,
Well why would you? You’re used to your reality, and you don’t think of it fondly…
Sluggish in the morning, only wanting to get back in bed, you set the comb down and decide today’s a bad hair day,
Maybe you’ll just get back in bed, hide yourself away, call it a day,
Hanging your head, knuckles white gripping your comb, gentle curls no long rolling down your back in waves, but rather suspended limp, covering your hallow teardrop face.
If only you knew that combing your hair and getting out there is the best thing you could do for someone, somewhere, waiting.
You know, they don’t all care if it’s not your best look because nonetheless you’ve got them hooked on something much deeper than mere looks.
You’ve got more to you than your strong, long dark locks. Besides, they aren’t the only things that can have strength.
Inspired by a poetry prompt introduced by this blog post. The prompt was to write about an everyday activity… I can’t seem to help making it something deeper.