Walls cave in as I grow taller,
Yet my room is getting smaller.
Being the youngest out of three
Tells you how to leave people be,
How to not stare and glare,
How to and not to treat people
And somehow make them feel equal.
Yet people think we have it so grand,
But try being the youngest first hand.
It isn’t fun to play by yourself
In the summer sun, or the “you’ll get your chance one day”
While you watch your teenage siblings go and play,
Yet this wrenching feeling doesn’t go away.
But in fact, it stays the distance,
And the fighting you wish you had it all in writing.
The fact that you might not be friends in the end
Makes me feel sick, and it takes me on a trip
To how I could have been better to my siblings,
But yet they always still think I am fibbing.
So here’s to the youngest, tried and true,
You don’t know what it feels like to be left out
Unless you have siblings older than you.
