Collected Almosts

Always the writer, never the muse. 

I bleed into pages, but it’s nothing new. 

I carve out worlds where I don’t belong, 

While no one’s writing me into their song.

Always just good, but never the best. 

I rise just enough to blend with the rest. 

Scraping ceilings that I’ll never break, 

I give my all, but they never take.

Always a choice, but never the one. 

Held in their hands, then left undone. 

I’m the almost, the maybe, the in-between, 

Standing in the shadow of someone else’s dream.

Always the photographer, never the scene. 

Preserving their joy while I stay unseen. 

Lost in the frame, erased from the glass, 

A witness to love that was never meant to last.

Always trying, but falling behind. 

They call it strength, I call it resigned. 

I scream at the stars, but they don’t reply, 

Always the question, never the why.

Written: 2024