Working Class: The Uninvited Guests of Poetry

Oh, poetry, you lofty muse,
Your words so grand, your themes so pure,
But working class, we're kept outside,
Our stories untold, our voices obscured.

We're the builders, the makers, the cogs in the wheel,
We're the hands that toil, the hearts that feel,
But our stories are deemed too mundane,
Our voices too rough, our lives too plain.

Yet we have stories to tell,
Of sweat and tears, of love and loss,
Of struggles and triumphs, both big and small,
Of lives lived fully, though often unseen.

So we crash the gates of your ivory tower,
And demand our place at your table,
We are the working class, the uninvited guests,
But we will no longer be ignored.

We will tell our stories in our own words,
We will sing our songs in our own voices,
And we will make poetry our own,
For it is ours as much as it is yours.

So open your ears and listen closely,
To the stories of the working class,
For they are the stories of the world,
And they deserve to be heard.