You might not know the real me
The One you see and roams free
and the other whom you read locked in my poetry
I am a soothing breeze when heard
I could be a volcano in words
Gentle as a dewdrop on your window in a beautiful winter morning
I am the storm trapped in my pages rumbling and alarming.
Flip in the pages once ready for the thunder storm and fire flashes
You'll meet the whole of me once this dust settles.