The Tiara

As a young one
sparkly gems
grabbed hazel eyes
in the palm of society.

My mind visioned
good fortune would
lay down before me,
as roads were paved
in gold.

Always pushing to become
the one to wear the coveted
tiara, having a dress made of silk
and a cute boy by my side.

But I was the one in the back
in old denims and raven, stringy hair-
watching a blonde and blue beauty
wear the prize on top of her mind.

As Fifty graces my face
I realize, tiaras are made of plastic,
cute boys are milk duds
and stringy hair is perfect.

My crown is made of daisies
and royalty is birthed from the heart,
not in the mirror.