this post is titled 'i cant fuck up'
because "fucking up" is colossal
increasingly irreparable, you become irredeemable,
your damage becomes a mess somebody else has to wipe up,
and that's not cool.
you see, the point i'm at in life
is where my first pay cheques came in right next to the pieces of paper that
claimed payment for the costs of my existence on this earth
tuition, phone bill, books, health insurance, transport,
i started to pay my way through,
so much so i started to feel ashamed when
the hands of my mother and father had to come bail me out again,
hands that had so far cleaned up my mess, wiped my scraped knees,
and cuddled my 6 year old frame.
hands that tell so many stories
you're always happy to help, but
you can't cheat the way age, stress, unhappiness
has carved its way into the lines in your face,
or how they have all carved their initials into
each mile that separates us.
you're not so happy when i don't try though,
when i don't think things through,
when i make costly mistakes i probably could've avoided.
see mom and dad, when you're mad
i don't even need to look at your faces,
i just need to look at your hands.
your hands flailing around,
your hands slicing the air,
your hands poking invisible chests,
your hands shaking shoulders that don't exist.
your hands become fists, of frustration desperation
wrinkles that come early, lines of deliberation
within whose spaces i colour in little moments of
absolute question
at the situation
you are in,
why am i here, lord?
why do i have to deal with this?
but when you look around
and you realise that no one else cares,
no one else will listen or be responsible
for a life that is not theirs,
you wake up and shake the doubt right off,
you can't fuck up... otherwise all is lost.
so you hold your head up high and you polish my shoes,
you iron my school uniform and you prepare my food.
you teach me how to never be in someone else's way,
never to be a liability or an obligation,
and to always be welcome wherever i stay.
you help me spell the word responsible, and teach me most of all,
that the expensive life you have so carefully tried to protect for me,
is always and has always been my own.
there's careless and then there's carefree
and me stuck between the two.
trying to find the balance between having a stick up your arse
and choosing to have nothing to do.
i'm too aware to waste away my days,
i'm too wide awake at night.
i cant sleep i toss and i turn,
because i know i need to fight.
i need to invest in my own life,
and never forget my parents' sacrifices.
no matter how disillusioned i get,
please let me never forget where i come from.
i can't fuck up, because i don't want to.
i can take care of myself that much.
because "fucking up" is colossal
increasingly irreparable, you become irredeemable,
your damage becomes a mess somebody else has to wipe up,
and that's not cool.
you see, the point i'm at in life
is where my first pay cheques came in right next to the pieces of paper that
claimed payment for the costs of my existence on this earth
tuition, phone bill, books, health insurance, transport,
i started to pay my way through,
so much so i started to feel ashamed when
the hands of my mother and father had to come bail me out again,
hands that had so far cleaned up my mess, wiped my scraped knees,
and cuddled my 6 year old frame.
hands that tell so many stories
you're always happy to help, but
you can't cheat the way age, stress, unhappiness
has carved its way into the lines in your face,
or how they have all carved their initials into
each mile that separates us.
you're not so happy when i don't try though,
when i don't think things through,
when i make costly mistakes i probably could've avoided.
see mom and dad, when you're mad
i don't even need to look at your faces,
i just need to look at your hands.
your hands flailing around,
your hands slicing the air,
your hands poking invisible chests,
your hands shaking shoulders that don't exist.
your hands become fists, of frustration desperation
wrinkles that come early, lines of deliberation
within whose spaces i colour in little moments of
absolute question
at the situation
you are in,
why am i here, lord?
why do i have to deal with this?
but when you look around
and you realise that no one else cares,
no one else will listen or be responsible
for a life that is not theirs,
you wake up and shake the doubt right off,
you can't fuck up... otherwise all is lost.
so you hold your head up high and you polish my shoes,
you iron my school uniform and you prepare my food.
you teach me how to never be in someone else's way,
never to be a liability or an obligation,
and to always be welcome wherever i stay.
you help me spell the word responsible, and teach me most of all,
that the expensive life you have so carefully tried to protect for me,
is always and has always been my own.
there's careless and then there's carefree
and me stuck between the two.
trying to find the balance between having a stick up your arse
and choosing to have nothing to do.
i'm too aware to waste away my days,
i'm too wide awake at night.
i cant sleep i toss and i turn,
because i know i need to fight.
i need to invest in my own life,
and never forget my parents' sacrifices.
no matter how disillusioned i get,
please let me never forget where i come from.
i can't fuck up, because i don't want to.
i can take care of myself that much.
