Working man’s poem
A workman’s poem this is not,
despite my labours of love
and my chores of hate.
A workman I am not,
laying brick, paving the way,
for there’s no money in metaphors.
I toil in obscurity, unseen, unknown,
to an end that is betterment,
but obscure, unseen and unknown.
Long is the road I have to walk;
miles and miles of pain and regret
to hold on to a sun I hope not to smother.
Yet at the end of the day, I am not a workman,
just a working man, doing what I must…
a whole lot of work.