poverty stricken I might be.
with change cling clanging the dreams that might still one day come.
I don't grow like a fat wallet with status and symbols of wealth.
I'm the poor mental you may of passed on the street.
you didn't know I was either.
I wore my elite Sunday best.
I shmoozed and hobknobbed like no other, see my intellect hides all of the above.
but it's no secret.
I don't hide in shame at my basement blues.
I don't quiver at the knees when you speak of cars, houses and vacations in sun.
I'm beyond rock bottom, but you can't tell me I won't reach the top.
when I do I won't need pictures or accolades from unknowing sources.
I'll have my brain, my brawn and the one thing I always had the strength to carry.
myself, these words and the willingness of change.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
