I’ve got biracial hair.
The texture is noticeable, unique, different,
and I never seemed to appreciate it’s roots until recently.
Roots of immigrants coming to start a new life,
and roots of slaves coming against their will, pleading for a return of their own.
My hair gets tangled often, brushing it sucks.
The curls form an identity contradiction,
just like the other mulattoes who lived long before me,
when the n word was freely used to degrade,
and the oppressed tried to better themselves.
I’ve got the Holy Spirit.
He’s part of a Trinity, three in one,
a concept nobody seems to understand.
But I guess I’d be lying if I said I fully do.
Sometimes I feel I relate to the Holy Spirit,
not understood, a social contradiction.
And no matter how real we both are, people rarely notice or care,
unless they want something from us.
However, I can never truly compare to the Holy Spirit,
for He has no fault.
He’s there for all who call on Him.
He’s the best thing that could happen to anyone,
even in this crumbling world.
He’s my best friend, and there for me all the time,
and He will always be the greatest thing I could ask for.
I am often denied, I am often confused,
I have a messy style, life, and mind.
Yet I am joyful, despite my many flaws,
with my biracial hair, and Holy Spirit.