Always an angel, always the poet,

Always the bridesmaid, never the chosen.

My love is mine to give, yet somehow it feels stolen.

I reside in shadows until I’m out,

Dancing in spotlights after drinking too much.

I feel powerless and small, and silently strong,

Big enough to write poetry and letters confessing my feelings in the dark.

Then in daylight, I am looked past on my walk to work,

Giving me the sense that I am not as important as the ones named for flowers.

I do not have a Gatsby or a Dawson to call my own,

And I am afraid I never will.