There I walked,
the timid man on the sidewalk-
an example-
of the low end of middle-class.
Mama said-
never to raise my voice,
always to defer to the leaders.
They were what they were,
because they were better than us.
And, I did.
I aspire to reach the middle of middle-class.
But, why did I feel like a child
trying to catch the clouds?
Yet, the big man kept telling
we were all fine.
I accepted,
yet,
why couldn't I believe?
But I fell in line.
Lent my voice and
made it louder than him-
perhaps
he would notice my devotion.
He thundered-
everything is nice,
in top shape,
the economy was alive.
And, being his stooge,
I said -
"Middle-class, stop your whine,
make do with what you have.
You get educated,
you feel clever-
ask too many questions
in your insignificant lives."
"You ungrateful airheads-
NO MORE."
I rambled on-
"Get out of your illusion;
you never mattered.
Donation by the rich is
democracy's foundation.
That foundation is made deeper by-
a mammoth number of poverty ballots."
But after the outburst,
I wish I could plant on my cheek
a resounding slap.
Chasing the passing clouds,
I betray my brothers.
Then I recall,
like myself,
they lose no opportunity-
to throw brothers into the ditch.
I parrot the leader- to earn favour.
I have to balance on
the unstable ladder in my ascent.
My puny hope shows who we are!
Yet, in the morning's naked light,
I walk out with my head in the sky,
wearing a dazzling suave countenance,
for the role I am to play.
Hope, dreams
and everything in between,
keep me trapped in the illusion
of being someone....
Those few feet...
If I could only keep climbing,
I might reach.
Perhaps it's my grave,
that I dig,
but, what options do I have?
-
Author:
Rebellion In Sanity (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 12th, 2025 10:02
- Comment from author about the poem: In some countries, middle-class people get to vote but their votes don't decide the outcome. I am not sure if it's a tragedy or an intentional ommision / oversight in the design of democracy. Who knows?
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
A poem with the feeling of futility that accompanies life itself. Well done
I feel happy that you had a read and for your kind words. Thank you 🙏
You are most welcome
Our votes count to get them in, then they turn to there own agenda and ignore the masses, enjoyed the read
Thanks for your review and support🙏
You are very welcome
My friend, this poem walks a fine, painful line between self-awareness and complicity, and you capture it with almost theatrical precision. The “chasing the passing clouds” refrain hits like an unshakable metaphor for striving in a rigged game, and that final thought...climbing toward what might be your own grave...carries a brutal, quiet truth. The voice is confessional yet performative, which makes it sting even more. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛ Wonderful write!
Thank you very much for your support 🙏
You are so very welcome, my friend. Truly. 🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.