"Street Corner Scum Bag"

A poem about life on the streets

I was a street corner scum bag,
A hoodlum,
A hood rat's hooker.

Dirty clothes,
Dusty hair - bleached,
Old shoes - stinkin'.

Bruised face,
Bruised arms,
Bruised past,
Bruised Childhood,
Bruised emotions,
Glass complexion.

I used to run,
That was my game.
Ran streets,
Ran drugs,
Ran clubs,
Ran weapons,
Ran whatever they put in the bag over my shoulder.
I was a fast motherfucker.
Not fast enough to run the show.

I looked my part.
I became my part.
Crazy cracked out conniving cracker
Without a care or cause,
Characterized, confessionally,
As a 'daddy out the door junkie',
A 'momma's money junkie',
Though daddy had no door,
And momma had no money,
Just malevolence, make-up and a
Mischievous mean streak
With a mission.

I was dying out there daily.
Part of me did die out there,
Spirit floated to that
Lower East Side
Junkyard,
Couch in an alley
Junkie haven.

My second go 'round,
A little cleaner.
Well... less dirty.

I had some things though,
Girl,
Car,
House,
Job,
Sunshine,
Promise,
A supply and a habit.

Still a habit.

So I still lied,
Still cheated,
Still lied,
Still ran,
Still Stole,
Still lied.
I lied to not tell the truth,
I lied anywhere,
Mud, Alley, that dirty couch,
All I did was lie.

Time's gotta be up.
Curtain's gotta come down.

I got sick.
Sick of this World Wide Winners Association.

Sick of the degenerates,
The Frauds,
The Phonies,
The Thugs,
The pimps, pushers and panhandlers,
The convicts, felons and freaks,
For speed and junk,
The alchys,
Sick of the sick, the ill, even the well.
I got sick.

I seeked shelter from the sick.

It was a mansion of mayhem
For misfits in masks,
Misguided mack daddys on a mission,
A market for men who fear the mirror.

Sanity isn't so easily lost,
Though it was probably never where I left it,
Even when I swore I put it there
(I lied)
Again.
Oh - it's checked at the door,
OK, I'll pick it up later,
Along with my pride, dignity and confidence.
...Is there a clean pair of underwear too?

Hotel California,
Sounds like a day spa.
Here,
Hands covered
with shit,
With cum,
With puke,
With blood,
With guilt and fear.

Where to drop 'it',
Where to leave 'it',
Where to hide 'it'.
Where the fuck can I bury 'it' all?

It's been so easy before.
Stash spots were on Bleecker and MacDougal,
One on 10th,
At least six I'll never tell,
Plus the ones I forget,
But where do I bury this?
It's intangible,
Yet weighs me down like a sack of rocks and a building.

Some things,
I can't stash,
Can't hide,
Can't bury.

I heard it somewhere,
But I feel it now:
"Giant of my dreams,
Dwarf of my fears"

But I have a promise,
No more streets,
No more war,
No more blood, no more cum and puke,
No more shit, hate, rage, dope, runs,
No more hunger,
No more fraud,
No more mask.

No more being that street corner scum bag

Other recommended poems based on this one:  ADDICTION  |  DOPESICK  |  WAR

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Photo used under Creative Commons from Anthony Quintano