I say that I don’t need you,
I can do this on my own,
But in truth, I’ll struggle
If I haven’t yet been shown.
But I’m too proud to say so,
I’ll attempt it anyway,
And when I make a mess of it,
My mood will shift to grey.
I’ll sulk and stamp and caterwaul,
Upset I’ve got it wrong,
But still too proud to ask for help
I needed all along.
The thing is, Mum, I’m five-years-old
So I can be excused,
For showing signs of needing help,
And yet that help’s refused.
But what then, Mum, is your excuse?
You’ve lived and learnt and grown,
But still refuse kind helping hands
And battle on alone.