Paul Cree - Whoever Said It Was Easy lyrics

Getting out of bed, On time. Eating breakfast, If you're lucky. Jump in the shower, Pack your bag, Brush your teeth. Look in the mirror, Check for spots, Do your hair. Open the door, Wrap up warm, Say goodbuy, Step out your house, And bop to the bustop all the while looking cool, That's hard. All of that, 5 days a week. Is hard. Getting on the bus and being cussed because your team lost the night before, Or the trainers that your wearing, Represent what your mum and dad can't afford Or your jumper shirt and trousers, Were what your older brother was wearing the year before, Or there's a girl, Sitting two seats behind you, That you've fancied for 2 years, And you know that she has her hair in a bun on Mondays and Thursdays, Wears eye shadow on a Friday, But doesn't get the bus home because of drama cla**, But she doesn't even know your name, That's hard. Sitting in cla**, And no matter how hard you try, You just cant understand what's going on, Or you studying so many subjects in one afternoon you get confused, Or the pressure of hitting those high grades just to hold down that uni place, That's hard. Having the answer, To the one question that at some point in your school life you will be asked, “What do you want be when you leave”? To even have a inkling of an answer, That's hard. But what's really hard. What's is incredibly hard. What is university challenge hard. Is when you know what you want, When you know what you want to be, Whatever that may be But it seems, Everyone around you, Wants to tell you, You can't. You can't do that People like you, don't do that I've never done that, so you can't do that You can't. Its as delicate as an egg, Balanced on the slight curvature of a spoon, Then placed into a race, On school sports day. A plant trying to lay roots in shallow soil subjected to wind. A thin plastic black and white 99p football, That makes a ping when kicked and goes off in the wrong direction, Floating in slow motion into a bush full of stinging nettles, Watched by a rabble of open mouthed young boys. An adult robin, Leaving a nest full of chicks unattended for a split second, Under the swooping shadow of a magpie. All because, Someone says, White boys don't make rappers, Black boys don't make painters, Asian boys don't make footballers, Girls don't sit on boards of big business, State school kids don't make prime ministers. For every 1 can , There must be about a thousand cants, That's like a 1 in 1 thousand chance, Of making a can, An actuality. It's like a trying to hum your own tune, In a packed stadium singing a football chant. But that one can is still a chance And it is hard, But I would rather fail, Knowing that I'd at least tried to succeed Rather than giving in to the voices, Telling me that I can't, And there's a lot of them And yes it is hard, But it gets, Easier.