Common Folk
Out here
just trying to get by.
Work.
Bills.
Repeat.
Somewhere in between—
trying to remember
what living feels like.
I’m not rich.
Never was.
No yachts,
no getaways—
just back roads,
campfires,
cabins off the grid,
meals that don’t cost much
but mean everything.
I don’t chase
big houses, fast cars,
or whatever new thing
they’re selling this week.
I need time.
I need people.
I need something real.
A simple life.
A few good memories.
The ones I love
still within reach.
Because that’s what matters—
not what they tell us matters.
What they sell us
is distraction.
Because if we slow down—
we notice.
We notice
they don’t live like this.
They don’t stand
in checkout lines
doing math in their heads.
They don’t wonder
which bill waits.
They don’t feel
that quiet pressure
of barely enough.
They don’t survive—
they profit from it.
And we’re down here
stretching every dollar,
calling it “making it work.”
Holding it together
while it keeps slipping.
We are the workforce.
The backbone.
The ones who keep it moving
no matter what it costs us.
We—
the ones called essential
when it’s convenient.
We—
the ones forgotten
when it’s time to pay.
We—
the common folk.
