Growing up is too hard

If all you had to do was cook and clean and wash and dust
Then why were you born?
Why did the Rain Gods whisper in your seven-year old ears
Of great times to come?
Why those goosebumps at mountain tops and that feeling
Breathless -
Of one day being drenched in the light of the Universe?
Why did the books and novels let you dream
Why did they let you hope
That your life would mean something?
All those hours spent soul-searching
And admiring the colouring of little barbets
They hang framed, in the hallowed halls of your memory
Sweeter times of the past
For now you must work.

You must work.
There's always more work.

You were so sure, that you'd amount to something
But growing up has been much too hard
And much too hollow.