A gaping chasm
Vacuuming in the air
It hurts.
My heart.

Because of its whiteness
The White House is fattist
And racist and səxist
And thissist and thattist
     And agist and apist
     And probly a ******.

The loneliness
Is swallowing me
Whole

When the night's moon is a quarter
She stands in breast deep water
The skylight beams on her wish
If comes her way a catch of fish.

She's the robust woman of night
And it's no fancy's flight
She gritfully spreads her net
Even when the river is in spate.

She knows well when the tides swell
The games are not easy to catch
Where the river meanders to a curve
She waits low tide holding her nerve.

When the silvery streaks struggle for breath
She looks not real but a myth
A mud princess with a golden heart
An apparition seen but can't be touched.

On a river with eons of length
She struggles with all her strength
I won't ever get even a chance
She's too focussed to give me a glance.

As far as comfort zones go
I fluctuate between gagging on a hot dog
Or a cool breeze
Sometimes very hot
Depending upon
Which air I got

I am my mother's first born child.
The first child she ever carried.
I am my mother's first born child ,
Also bearer of  her past traumas,
I am my mother's first born child ,
I am her test and trial
I am my mother's first born child ,
Child who had to mature mentally before physical developments,
I am my mother's first born child,
Child who had to understand mother's love through pain


I held my siblings just as my mother
I loved and protected them.
But little do they know ,
I am also just the first born child,
I needed to be loved and  protected too.
But little do they know ,
I was born first to break the generational traumas .
Then set the path for my younger siblings ,
Put up with all family dramas.

Although I say my mother was once a little girl herself too.
This is her first time being a parent.
Still I am my mother's first born child,
The bearer of all her karmas .

There is a gravity to
sadness; it pulls me
downward into a
deep dark well.
I can't climb out.
It's my own private hell.
I pray for levitation.
I jump, only to fall.
I feel forgotten.

I put one foot in
front of the other,
and I will rise.
I move on.
Hope returns like
a long-lost friend,
and I find my sanctuary.