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Upper class poverty-stricken me
by Timothy WilsonI think it started as an infant
I grew up naked in front of the TV
Images of the men and women looking sophisticated
With their smoke blooming from the forbidden sticks
Part of my backwards wiring
Even before I could say the words
I knew I wanted a martini glass in one hand
A cigar and a fat wallet
It wasn’t the appearance of their snobbery
It was the concept
It’s mysterious plastic and magnetic glamorous appeal
I wanted to put myself aside from society
To be amongst those who are not amongst the masses
Somebody
Now a day I sleep
Every day is a struggle for a paycheck
Shaking the sofa over my head with my mouth open hungry for change
I never got to be a rock star
I never got to be a rich man
I never got to be better
And falling from my dreams I look into her eyes
She thinks I’m the best
10/15/2009 Posted on 10/16/2009
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Wilson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 10/16/09 at 04:33 PM ...a lament, yet you're still 'hopeful' enuf in the carriage of the subject of growing-up and the mist of dreamsville's city limits cover us...yet you see more clearly than many in my face [college-age students] as they dream their dreams away not seeing the stairs...bet you got some stairs, eh? you're rich if she thinks your the best--never make her think otherwise...this is a pome wiser than you are old...good one, tim. |
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