Sometimes Everyting ain't 'Irie.'

Is this alright?
This self indulgent,
first world chore.
Where we still ain't found what we're looking for.
Amongst the nice cars,
double shot lattes in espresso,
lives.

Sometimes,
for the child I was.
I bear a great big,
fuck off,
cross.
Does it make you uncomfortable,
to hear me dragging it down our street.
So everyone can see?

Don't fret,
your selves bout,
how I was beaten,
and put down every fucking day.
Or how frozen peas were the perfect accompaniment for welts and bruises.

Sometimes,
just sometimes,
when I think about it,
or feel the pain of the kid I was.
I ball my eyes out.
And pull some really ugly faces.

Don't blame yourself though pops,
cos if I'd not done that thing wrong,
then you'd not have had,
to do this,
to me,
would ya?

And if only I'd been a much better lad,
I could've had these frozen peas with chips,
instead of having them with this lump on the side of me head.
What an idiot I am,
eh,
dad?

Where are ya now?
Pushing up some daisies?
Or wondering where ya kids are?
Missing them,
wishing you'd kissed us more,
and hurt us less.
This lyrical wax,
ain't intended to attract,
the empathy,
of those,
who do,
or don't know me.
It's just sometimes you gotta get this shit off your chest,
cos sometimes,

everything ain't 'irie.'