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Don't judge me by my looks
And don't read me by the books
I am brash and I am kind
I am hard to define.
I am bold. I am shy
I am grounded, but I fly
I love, and I give
I cradle, I forgive
Though soft I may feel
I am thunder, I am steel
I am smiles and I am laughter
I am happily ever after
I am tears and I am ache
I am a mess when I break
I hold tightly, but I know
When it's time to let go
I am dove, I am hawk
I am the rose and the rock
I am rain. I am sun
I am I. I am woman

Thank you all so much **
Dearest everyone, thank you so much for your likes, loves, reposts.  Thank you so much for all your wonderful and encouraging responses. This is a small,  simple poem and I wasn't certainly expecting all the attention it has received. I am grateful to all of you talented poets and readers. I am so happy that it was chosen as a daily - it's a wonderful feeling. Love to all.

I am also very thankful to Conrad Druger van den Bergh, an excellent poet and wonderful friend who inspired this x
To her
They were just boys
Coming and going
Like tides taking effortlessly from the shore

But to them
She was the moon disturbing all their movements,
Controlling their feelings with her mysterious big eyes
And they were all helpless to her pull
My greatest disappointment (in this moment), is feeling foolish
about what I believed and chose to swallow as truth: that I was extraordinary and enough. For him.

I mean, he was dynamite convincing; obliterated my doubts and healed me all at once; showed me love and then came "but" out of somewhere it always existed.

I hate this love **** -- this roller coaster movement that
scrambles my compartmentalized thoughts and accelerates my fear and loathing of something that is meant to be incredible and beautiful.
Drunk and dangerous
Found and lost
Dropped off in the back of my
Scattered thoughts

Down under
Caught in between the space of
What to do about boy wonder
And all the fright
Distracting me from my deep slumber
This time of night
In the thick of life
And love
And alcohol
And Mary Jane
And the eleven year old
Prized possession he holds
Near and dear to his pounding heart

Everyone in me wants to run
Different directions
For the hills
Where I
Live aloud and alone
Believing more than anything
I’ll be fine on my own--
Sans the love of a man
That believes his heart I spelled and stole
Or not
Because he can’t help
But be who he is
Flirty and fiery with others that aren’t me

Seated in the dark
Drowning the voices of his persuasive bravado
I sip slow and swallow
Counting the minutes until--  
I wrote this poem somewhere between 3:49am - 6:42am on 6/2/17 shortly after I went through my boyfriend's phone and found incriminating text conversations.
I wanna take it back
to ‘99

When my best friend was all that mattered
and the future we dreamt about
under the effect of minds altered
was tantamount to our freedom
to roam and ride ***** through the streets of silk city

When an unhampered day felt like
the beginning of time
and walks through east side park
evoked a natural high--
because I had no business holding hands
with the boy from the other side
of the tracks

Of opportunity
Not yet known and unwasted
The raw me that dwells within the I Am that is Me is not of this world, yet exists in this realm just the same.

Dreams are for me temporary respites, a sojourn in relief from the dense material yet hallow Frames of this world; and to be in it, not fully understanding yet accepting, seems to be the biggest of undertakings.

What becomes of the soul that encounters mirrors along the way? Mirrors in the form of dense shapes filled with diverse spectrum's of light. The light in the me comes to know, that alone the light is not in this corporal world.

What happens when the light meets with fate and encounters beings in the shape of other life forms? Intertwined in this vast web of mystery of the unknowable yet deeply felt within? Seems Conspiratorial.

The truth remains, and even more so a reminder of the me that dwells within the I Am that is forever Me; ever connected, ever intertwined in the journey of life longing for itself. Longing to be asleep, for to sleep is to dream, to dream is to be free from the bonds of this body that seem like such a prison to the soul.

A light seeming so far from the home I truly know as real, where the me and the I Am are truly One and indeed free from the constructs of this separated world which contrast exists.

W.M. Smith III

I bask in his mightiness on a daily basis and it invigorates me
And each day I emerge from his den feeling more like a predator and less like the prey
It’s what I am learning to portray-- as I watch him
He teaches and I admire
And I sense my spirit shifting
As I mentally morph into his female counterpart--
dominant and driven, it’s difficult to be apart
Side by side we hunt for morning glory--
And howl to be heard as the masterminds of our own territory
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