I learned the art of quiet long before I learned to speak,
a masterclass in standing tall when all the floors felt weak.
The blueprint of the family, the first to face the tide,
with every heavy standard neatly organized inside.
They compare me to the ghost of who I was at seventeen,
and measure every sorrow against who I should have been.
I poured my whole devotion into rooms that turned to stone,
believing if I gave enough, I wouldn’t sit alone.
I know all of your secrets, kept your history like a vault,
yet when the silence settled in, you named it as my fault.
You said you wanted peaceful days and walked out in the rain,
while I sat stranded, searching for the words to name the pain.
I can explain the heartache to a stranger passing by,
but look into the mirror and the phrases run bone-dry.
They say the ones who lack a home will seek it in the crowd,
but every crowded street I walk is cold and far too loud.
I am tired of the armor, tired of the steady spine,
tired of apologizing just for hurting on my time.
I never meant to break the room; I only sought a space
where someone listens closely to the girl behind the face.
Her and I have never coexisted in the same timeline.
So why do I miss her warmth,
Her scent,
Her embrace,
Her smile?
I miss her more than words could explain.
I miss her very being,
As if we were inseparable—
Yet I've never even met her.
Not even once.
Being the first can be a lonely role.
So perhaps I yearn for her presence because, if she were here,
She would relieve me of this crown forced upon my head.
I yearn to be called her little sister,
Even if it meant she had to carry the crown
And bear the role of being The First.
I am selfish. I know.
But my yearning for an older sister's love
Is greater than my selflessness.
I would gladly settle for the middle—
The forgotten—
If it meant I no longer had to bear the crown of The First.
For once,
I want to be the comforted
And not the comforter.
But in this lifetime,
She and I will never coexist in the same timeline.
For the universe deemed she was too good for this world,
And I...
I became the rightful heir
To the crown of The First.
Your baby.
I am your baby.
Tell that to your tongue—
the same tongue that cuts deeper
than any blade I’ve ever known.
Or do you choose to cut?
Your baby.
I am your baby.
Does your womb remember me?
Or has it sheltered too many
to still recognize me?
Does it not ache
when my heart breaks in silence?
I came from you.
Do you not remember that?
I didn’t ask to be here—
but you wanted a baby.
And you got one.
Too bad motherhood
wasn’t what you imagined.
Too bad it came with sleepless nights,
heavy hands,
and words you couldn’t swallow.
But that is not a fault
I can carry for you.
And still…
I am your baby.
The one who waits
for your voice to soften..
The one who listens
for love between the anger.
The one who stays
even when it hurts.
Your baby.
Still your baby.
Even when your hands are distant.
Even when your words forget me.
Even when your love feels like
something I have to earn.
I am still here—
Waiting...
Still hoping
you will remember
how to be gentle
with your baby.
That you will remember I am still your baby.
My mom, she, when I was just three,
Would binge operas of soaps, and she
Tethered to the television, after her sail
Home from Pearl Harbor, would not fail
To hug and kiss our butterfly eyes and cheeks.
She’d store mama’s milk in freeze for weeks.
As we’d march off to church crammed in car,
Mom saw her binge as a sin and went as far
As to stop watching all three, especially as
We’d call them Mama’s Soaps. Her new jazz
Is God and the bible, and her church friends.
Some have kids our age. On weekends
We’d go to explore the beach, but then
We all moved and Mama said Amen.
My brother, once said, Mom, you’re not old enough to
knit and crochet. She said, Then how do we learn to?
Rolling eyes…as at some point, she
Started writing, took up poetry.
Those rolling eyes and whys, recorded for posterity,
She reads to us one, two, three - her peculiarity.
Eldest daughter cries a lot
Tries to hide the pain
But gets betrayed by her eyes
Pain reflected by palms
Blood running by her own wounds
Wounds she never hopes to treat
Neither anyone intends to...
She craves for a good sleep
Laying her head on her mother’s lap
Forgetting about her past and
dropping all her future worries
She just want to have a good sleep
She wants to be cared
Wants to be prioritised
Wants to be listened
Wants to be loved
Loved unconditionally..
I am the eldest, the pioneer,
The first in the line,
Every move I make is watched,
Every choice judged in time.
The trail ahead is un-traveled,
No footsteps yet in the sand,
I blaze the trail for those behind,
Without holding a parents hand.
The weight of the expectations,
The pressure to excel,
To set an example so perfect,
To follow every rule.
My siblings march behind me,
With almost no burdens to bear,
While I struggle under the weight,
Of being the eldest heir.
But though the path is harder,
The journey all my own,
I walk it with perseverance,
And wisdom I have grown.
For though I lead the way alone,
They follow in my tread,
The trail I've paved for them to walk,
The lessons that I have led.
So I walk on with purpose,
My footsteps leaving trace,
For those who come behind me,
I clear the trail with grace.
First time forever,
laying on my bed.
Is me and my eldest,
saying things we've never said.
So demanding in her ways,
she thinks she's getting heard.
But to me in my eyes,
shes just being a little turd.
I love her so deeply,
tried with all my heart.
to bring her up good.
and make sure were not apart.
so much to say,
to go against my words.
as i said in the second verse.
she's just a little turd.
17/05/2016
Joshua Louis Pokorny Sullivan
Joshua was a beautiful soul
always soaring about
He brought love, laughter to everyone
even those who knew him not
Joshua was a beautiful soul
always expressing himself through art
He brought beauty, color, and humor
to everything he crossed
Joshua was a beautiful soul
always kind, compassionate, and strong
He tried to keep going and going
obstacles all along
Joshua was a beautiful soul
always funny, comforting, and smart
He knew just what to say and do
to make him be apart of you
Joshua was a beautiful soul
a wounded bird that no one could catch
He wanted to live in a life of ease
feeling no pain or disease
Joshua was a beautiful soul
no more problems to attend
He lives in Heaven now
like the Rose of Sharon
Joshua was a beautiful soul
the only rose in a field of trees.
He will always be loved
and never forgotten
Joshua IS a beautiful soul.........
Holly Moore, and my son, Jonathan Sullivan
July 2012
Methinks thou mayst receive mine words as false;
Her eldest daughter at a stew-house tups.
Come hither, pray - and see with thine own eyes
We lusty knaves surround that saucy wench
To make the two backed beast.
For Lisa’s Old English Scandal contest
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