No one is jealous of the journey

In the beginning, you were nothing but a thought,  

A whisper in the universe’s crowded ear,  

Fumbling in the void, a puzzle half-bought,  

While others swam in champagne, you drowned in beer.  

Your hands grew calloused from grappling with fate,  

Fingers entwined in the gears of the grind,  

While they sipped sweet wines, reclining, sedate,  

You choked on the fumes of the engines you lined.  

The nights were long, your dreams bedraggled,  

As shadows danced on the edge of your bed,  

While others had paths so neatly unravelled,  

You tripped on your own, bled, and then bled.  

But now you stand tall, with gold at your feet,  

The prize in your palm, the spoils of the game,  

They see your crown, they envy your seat,  

But never the scars that carved out your name.  

They see the shine, but not the grind,  

The roads you paved with bitter sweat,  

They want the end, not the journey behind,  

The fire you walked through they quickly forget.  

For what they crave is the glimmer, the gleam,  

The tale that is told when the hero's returned,  

Not the ashes left in the wake of the dream,  

Or the bridges that smoldered, or the lessons hard-learned.  

So wear your laurels, though heavy they weigh,  

Let them gaze with envy, unknowing, unwise,  

For you earned every inch of your triumph today,  

In the shadows, the dirt, beneath disinterested skies.  

Let them covet, let them pine for your place,  

But know in your heart, as you smile from afar,  

They see the crown, but they’ll never face  

The crucible that forged your star.