Let me get this shit straight
You want to raise kids that respect your rules but there is no meeting you half way?
All I’m hearing is that you want a hundred and fifty percent at all times, whilst you range from zero to ninety percent on a good day
You can’t expect a hundred and fifty percent, as we’ve all learnt in maths whether you were in the highest or lowest set, the max is a hundred
So take it or leave it
It’s a yielding matter that strangely only benefits you, leaving your kids where exactly?
That’s the problem
Parents want to raise the world’s best pretenders while turning a blind eye to their fuck ups
Let me explain a lil’ summin’ to most parents out here
The kids that you planted, watered, nourished and watched grow as though you were looking after a flower, is not a fucking object of nature to be desired and picked at a time that is convenient for you,
And if kids were like plants in the garden of parents
We’d all be rotten, ugly, dirty weeds
Trust me, the high would be shit.
You seem to be forgetting that you use to be kids once upon a long time ago,
So blow away the dust that’s gathered on top of those memories, the dust that’s clogging up your thought process when we ask you a risky question
Allow us get through our sentence without pulling a discouraging face, don’t say no without listening to our game plan first
You also forget that mostly, fuck that shit, all the NOs we hear in life are from you.
I’ve noticed how good you are at beheading our hopes, and hanging our dreams.
Parents get touchy, angry, some even become bitter beings when they come to the cold and icy realisation that their kids…
Don’t trust them,
Don’t talk to them,
Always beat about the bush when telling the truth,
Seek help from outside their homes because our houses are exactly just that.
A building we have keys to and keep our shit in
We don’t seem to need shit from ‘home’ anymore.
Home is someone else, some place else, even no where is home at times, to just be away both mentally and physically in order to escape our prison
Because all we don’t have are uniforms
You still chain us down through our phones; you don’t need to call every ten minutes just so you can hear us breathe
We won’t die without saying goodbye
So lay off our backs and give us space, enough to make us call our house ‘home’ again.
Well I’ve said my peace,
No shade or nothing