To be grown means to wear a cloak of care,
No fun, no love, no respect, just there.
Work and work, and all that shines through,
Is the selfishness of others, nothing new.
Responsibility and fun, a bitter fight,
One must fade, the other take flight.
Invisible, disappointing, that’s the score,
Adulthood makes you choose, forevermore.
Frustration, fury, at the fun unclaimed,
Responsibilities shackled, life’s not the same.
No children here, but dogs and a cat,
Work and school obligations, feel like a trap.
Output and grades, still feel like a fraud,
Imposter syndrome’s hand, a cruel god.
Wishing for freedom, unbound and wild,
But responsibility grips, since I was a child.
How is it, being irresponsible, I wonder?
Is it fun, like a carefree summer thunder?
Does it sting like bills, or being on time?
Or is it a breath of air, so sublime?
Does it choke like obligations each day,
Or is it freedom’s breeze, in every way?
I wish I could taste it, just for a while,
But wishing’s no good, it’s not my style.
Here’s to the irresponsible, hats off to you,
Your outlook praised, your burdens few.
Oh, how I long to be free, just for a day,
To feel the joy of not caring, come what may.
But I’m Black, I work twice as hard,
Half as good, yet striving, forever on guard.
Seen, heard, acknowledged, that’s the goal,
In a world where effort feels like a toll.
Sarcasm weaves through this tale of mine,
For life’s a stage, a twisted line.
So here’s to the irresponsible, with your light,
May your days be easy, your nights be bright.
As for me, I’ll carry on, the responsible one,
Dreaming of freedom, when the day is done.
