From The Bottom Of The Cup
I've toiled in shadows, my hands calloused and worn,
Laboring silently, my spirit tattered and torn.
For the promise of pennies, I've bent my back low,
While the masters of plenty reap what I sow.
They say, "Be content, for your cup overflows,"
But I see the dregs, the remnants they dispose.
The sweat on my brow, the ache in my bones,
Is this the reward for the seeds I have sown?
The factory hums, its gears grinding my soul,
As I stitch together dreams, thread by thread, whole.
The clock's relentless march, the assembly line's song,
Each tick a reminder: my worth is a pawn.
They preach gratitude, as if crumbs are a feast,
While they dine on opulence, their greed never ceased.
My saucer is chipped, its edges frayed thin,
And I wonder, is this all life has ever been?
Bare minimum sustenance, like scraps to a dog,
While they build castles high, their fortunes agog.
The fruits of my labor, a bitter aftertaste,
As they sip from golden goblets, their wealth interlaced.
I've glimpsed the dark clouds, felt despair's icy grip,
When hope waned thin, and my dreams began to slip.
Yet still, they demand more, my sweat and my blood,
As if my sacrifice alone can fill their coffers' flood.
So here's my counter argument, etched in defiance:
To settle for less is to silence resilience.
My cup may overflow, but it's time to demand,
Not just scraps from the table, but justice, firm and grand.
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Remember, dear friend, that your worth is immeasurable, and your labor deserves more than mere crumbs.
Copyright ©
Jeremy Troutman
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