Self-Portrait

I’m scum on the canvas, pain in the brush,

Life is a weakness in colorful hush.

No lengthy poems or volumes to send –

I live through fine strokes with a trembling hand.

Dark are the streets, full of life’s rejects,

I walk among them, no pride, no pretext.

My mask won’t fall, it hides all my cracks –

I’ll paint in some wrinkles, no time to relax.

I know I’m not alone in this age of disdain,

Where ego is law, and kindness is vain.

I’ll be free like a beast in a rusted old cage,

Pacing and breathing with growl and with rage.

No vows, no advice – I’ll just remain here,

Though poverty bites, I’ll hold myself near.

It cost me a fortune to like who I am,

I spoke like a king, but was just a sham.

The final stroke on my cursed design:

A scumbag in sweat, in blood, and grime.

He screams – “Give me freedom!” with fury and spit.

This monster is me… I once couldn’t admit.

He’s vile – but somehow his soul’s still ablaze,

Life charges him dearly for all of my ways.

But time has fled, and the frame’s all that’s left,

I burn with the canvas – alone and bereft.

Ash slowly swirls through the silence and air,

But the boy with a soul… is no longer there.

The fire set free what I tried to erase –

Scum with a soul has escaped from his place.