I’m not a crystal ball, I cannot tell the future. It’s a crime to know what time brings.
I’m not a shiny diamond, in that tear drop shape I wanted. Maybe, I’m a future bride but maybe I’ll buy my own ring.
I’m not a simple book, when you look through a library full of literature. I’m classic, contemporary, romance, adventure, biography, mystery, fiction, non-fiction — “a little brown mouse in somebodies house.”
I’m not defined or confined by a word, I have amassed the wealth of many words. And I might be a run-on-sentence but that’s just because there are no pauses in life.
And I might be blue – eyed and blond but I am not a matter of my looks but a matter of seeing deeper. I’m not the body infront of you I’m the one that was me at twenty-three.
And I’m not going to try to hold you back because I’m the one who stumbles, you can go on with your life . . . I’ll be fine.
And you are not a matter of your religion, I love you anyway, though I wish you saw the light in the darkness.
And just because I cannot do all the things you can, does not make me challenged, does not mean I can’t do anything — just call and ask.
I am not someone whose fallen and wants to sit life out, now you hear my voice calling — I have the voice of a lion, screaming let me out!
And I’m not a room you visit just because it’s peaceful, I’m all the nuisances that came together to form the feeling in this room, as you sit and drink your tea — I’m the warmth that you’re feeling.
I’m not alone, although sometimes I believe it, I am not isolating myself, I’m just trying to find a middle.
I’m not the amount of time I stay awake at night, I am the woman always thinking, until sleep finds me sooner.
I’m not my favorite dog, but I carry her with me, I need those memories to sustain me until I can get another.
I’m not a single picture, I’m a collage, a mosaic, a seer of the big picture. I am paint, charcoal, pencil, 20 LB paper, erasers, stubs, and paint brushes.
I’m not a tumble in the sheets, I have a name, and If you’re here with me, you’re here with me.
And I’m not defined by things, all that can be bought. I love to look gorgeose but I’d just as soon sweat and feel the high of endorphins with makeup running down my cheek.
I am not the way you look at me, like you know all about me, what makes me tick, what makes me sad, what makes me happy.
I am not a moment in the sun, I am the hummingbird flitting so fast she can’t breathe. And everything that ever was is eating through me thrumming.
I’m not defined, I’m not confined.
But why in the world would you look at yourself, really look and see, — everything you’re not?