This goes out to the working class,
Working people of America,
Who sort, Who count, and wipe down.
To all those out there,
Who count down the hours.
To the abuela who makes the pies on the counter,
To the teenagers who brave the streets at at crack of dawn,
To the dishwasher out there with the puff a cigarette.
Dead on their feet,
They are the backbone of every single thing.
All those rich folks pull up in their SUVs,
If only they knew,
Of the secret Oz behind the curtain,
Of the family affair that was at play,
Of the disaster mixed with a bottle o' gin.
To bring them that delicacy their finicky kids will hardly eat.
Never forget without the back bone,
Workers, servers, washers,
Your something would be nothing,
You somebody would be nobody.
It the poor, inexperienced, and the looked down upon are the building blocks of society.
YOU ARE READING
Symptoms
PoetryPoetry. Love. Happiness. Sadness. Depression. Guilt. Regret. Struggle and Confliction. We may all be breathing, we may all have our hearts beating. But these are our vital signs. These are symptoms that prove we're alive.
