Participation Trophy

Your wrinkles, trophy for participation.
The age spots measure trips around the sun.
The line you have to stand in at the station
reminding you that you are not the one.

No first class seats for you, no shiny medals.
As plain and ordinary as can be.
You're not the one that wins, you're one that settles
There's nothing to admire, naught to see.

And yet a part of you still keeps on dreaming
a hopeful, foolish child that trusts, believes,
convinced you've something special and redeeming,
though fate, so stubborn, hides it up her sleeves.

This inner angst, your shrink makes a suggestion,
is likely just a bit of indigestion.