That is not my Job

Most of my life has been in the dungeon.

Countless numbers of groundings,

Countless numbers of lectures,

but yet, I am used to it. It's all become routine.

 

Every time condemnation comes on me,

I shoot my signature phrase,

which is aimed at my father.

"Why do you love me?"

My words hit right in the heart.

 

You think that you are so clever

giving me the same excuse.

"That's my job,"

you say,

"I am your Father."

 

That's my job.

That's my job.

Newsflash, I am much more than your job.

I am your career.

 

You signed up for it,

so you should have read the contract.

You love me because you are obligated to.

You love me, not because you want to,

but because it's written in fine print.

 

You always say that you are not going to raise

a disobedient child.

Disobedience is my specialty,

yet you are surprised.

 

Life is nothing but a game,

and I am that one piece 

that keeps getting in your way.

 

I am testing you, my dear!

How far will you go,

Till your patient chains break,

and our forever bonds are broken?

 

Honor thy Father and thy Mother,

the wise ones once said. 

But shouldn't honor be given,

where honor is due?

 

Through my interpretation,

what quest, what task, what challenge

have you done

that makes you deserve an honorable mention?

 

You are the cause of my arrival.

What promotion are you seeking?

You do not go over and beyond.

You merely do your job.

 

Again I am caught in my

rebellious ways

and another lecture is on me.

 

You're piercing eyes look

strait into my soul,

and with great authority you say,

"This is the last time."

 

For wasn't the last time,

the last time?

And the last time?

And the last time?

 

Instead of repentance, formidable awe,

or even a thought of

changing my ways,

puzzlement strikes me face.

 

Tell me, Oh prestigious one!

When exactly is the last time?

Is it when you are relived from you duty,

or are you waiting to be replaced?

 

The night is young,

and our conversation is abridged.

I know that my words are cancerous,

for the Great Flood flows from your eyes.

 

I guess, I could say that I am sorry

for all the stress that I cause.

However, my sorrow would be a lie,

for I really wouldn't mean it.

 

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I flip through the pages.

Nope, not in the contract.

Forgive me, beloved,

but an apology

is not my job.

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
My family

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741