The pampered, the spoiled, the privileged one,
Yes you guessed it right, I am the youngest one.

My sister’s wardrobe is my wardrobe, but my wardrobe is not hers,
Shoes, lunch box I don’t buy anything, I always get them from others.

And my brother of course is so protective almost like a father figure,
Whatever I want I just take it, coz mom says, “She is younger no…let her.”

But being the youngest is not all rainbows and sunshine,
You could be twenty three and treated like nine.

And just like the closet which never get empty My heart is always filled with insecurities.

Yes, luckily enough I wasn’t the experimental child,
Mom and dad learning parenting with you must have been wild.

But then how did you turn to be so damn perfect,
It’s like they molded and shaped you exactly how they wanted.

Now how am I supposed to match your excellence,
I am tired of these comparisons, somebody show them the difference.

Please don’t think I am not thankful to you for paving the way,
I’m just trying to figure out my identity, my own pathway.

Above all the biggest curse of being the youngest kid,
Is feeling in 20s what my siblings might in 30s mid.

By default I will get to spend the least time with my parents,
Like writing this poem while scared of their sudden disappearance.

The lost, the neglected, the insecure one,
Allow me to introduce myself, I am the youngest one.