Scum

Scum | Piyushmaan Dev

Photo by Sarika

I don't have the resources

To be a mess.

To reap the scum of art,

To write poetry that makes the world

Shake off its labels

And put on squeaky boots

That sing into my rhythm.

I am deeply afraid

To be awake for weeks

With a dying fever

To write and just write

And then sleep forever

Into the swift nights that pass by endlessly.

I am stricken with the desperation

And fear of being left alone

Without love that it debars

Me from my vagabond passions

Of being at the top of

Kerouac’s Desolation Peak

I fear I'm not like 

The wild and rambling poets I’ve read,

The escapists I have loved,

And the dreamers that have solidified me 

Into half the man I am supposed to be