Working Class Poems - Poems about Working Class

It's all in your head. It's all in your mind. One day, you'll be dead. One day, you'll be hard to find. We say, "we wish we could fly." We say, "Give us some time." They'll work you till you die, They'll work you till you commit a crime. Freedom is only in your head. Freedom is only in your mind...

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Working class Poet It had been a long day at the factory but when there was a break, he jotted down a few words and during the day, it became a poem- he always had a pen and block ready, words were so flighty he may forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long. Coming home, told his...

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Jane the eldest of three sisters, and the Tadpole was given an earlier debut. Hails the middle sister of extraordinary charm and endearinng demeanor that exemplifies an industry--I find lacking. This be the common thread of most aspirants, forewarned a cobsweb be drawn innocence. She played Kristy McNichols bike friend on 'Friends', edged by a mom's...

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All I see is sadness up on people's faces long hours away from family- yet employers say they are family friendly...

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I walk these many streets I walk this path of stone I hunger for a life That I can call my own I'm a slave to my job I'm a slave to this town I'm a slave to the system That strives to keep me down I owe money for my house I owe money for my car I owe money to the bank I'm left...

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My pen write My heart speaks Of how my soul appreciate that one strong man Full of dust from head to toe Pushing those heavy wheelbarrow To earn for a bread Whose hands are those it is his family that awaits, awaits for him to share the bread My eyes have seen Of that wonderful woman...

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Built with rusted steel Steel mined by the workers’ hands Faceless above crowds An angel not from the blue But built with man’s blood and hope...

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Working class hero With an untold memory On the steps of hell...

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The stupid working-class It is odd is it not, the working-class have no idea of how powerful they are. Can you think of a world where no one cleaned the office? Build roads and keep street passable? Yet we treat them with contempt. Can you think of a couple who needs four jobs? to pay for the ever-increasing bills While rich...

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I. Daybreak what glint of morning is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences cuts the turf of rowhouses the weeds still talk with the legs of crickets as the post-dawn moon fades like a bubble here the old Norges and RCAs the transmissions extracted like tongues make tombstones in the yard the scattered habits of a mechanic early chests exhale crankshafts turn Chevrolets on storm are...

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I am the American worker coal fired for refined thieves on the thirty first floor. My secrets rest roadside beyond the guardrail where ditched alleys lead to rowhouses. A list of porches repeating to each other the economics of wear. My secrets shuffle moon-side with motors in gear. A scourge of trucks that drone and stab the night. My dignified rails drive mountain passes, but fade in stories written backwards. I belong...

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He wakes very morning to trudge through his day a labor of love or just bills to pay? it seems that forever he's been burdened with debt and retirement a time to reflect or regret? She awakes every morning to labor all day kids are in day care there's really no choice no other way the bank accounts empty and pay day seems so far away I think that this...

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The world is full of working class heroes Made up of every gender, shape and size. Inspiring everyone, their strength bestows They become the backbone of enterprise. My father was my working-class hero He passed on his ethics, in his workshop. Urging each person to learn and to grow Without them, trade will slow, maybe stop. Working class heroes all make the world...

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Greatest is the servant’s slave to the pope the good looking still carries a dry throat such living is washed with a costly soap to break a jinx right from ancestral coat value’s attached to every mess and rag people of this class just live and manage a rare light may shine but will face the lag progress so dragged despite all...

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Working class zero. The art of poetry is to write what you are thinking; The best poetry sometimes, comes without you needing to think. I write from the soul And sometimes I use my subconscious mind to do my bidding; Sometimes I study my target, To become better at performing my shtick. I want to be the best; so I try...

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