If diamonds form under pressure, then I am not a diamond.
Or maybe I am.
Or maybe I am just a different crystalline structure that someone mistook for a diamond until they got out the tools to polish me.
Maybe upon realizing the deception, they threw me back in the dirt.
Maybe they made jewelry out of me anyway.
Maybe they sold that jewelry to the top buyer, never revealing the fraud.
Maybe the buyer knew exactly what they were getting.
Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels
The Yellow Brick Ave 
Very cool poem. No Maybes about it.
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Thank you, Ron
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This poem rocks!!!! Love it
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Thank you!
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Maybe some people can’t appreciate that beauty comes in many forms.
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And it most definitely does
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