Slice his throat with the burning weight of his bleeding mind—leave it for somebody else to find.
He looked up at the greased up stars and asked, “Why is this life so unkind?”.
His hands clenched a black barbwire dream box, then it all broke down; he felt a cold shift from behind.
Tortured brain seeped again and again, then again once more—he was just a ***** to life’s chore.
He sat in his bright light chariot and counted his dough, crying because he only had four.
On his mind was a Chelsea red door, of which he would give anything to open and soar.
Biting his tongue, he told himself he couldn’t take anymore; twisting and swirling on the tile floor.
His face in the mud. His nose in the gutter.
He knew he couldn’t escape this place—leaning there watching everybody win their race.
Wondering why these people hold so tightly to their grace; it’s nothing but a ******* disgrace.
After all he would die one thousand times just to get a taste; die one thousand times just to forget this haste.
The loneliest nights break him apart, they tear him down as they create his art; giving him a start.
They never listen to the best part, ignoring what’s inside of his heart.
They mock him and spit on him, saying, “It doesn’t pay to be smart”.
He falls forcefully into his green stained chair, giving up to the filthy nighttime air; his eyes tear.
He cares—he cares but nobody gives a **** what he wears—it’s not ******* fair!
He works ******* his hair but they tell him it’s nothing—they glare.
They strip him naked and bare, killing the dreams he wears; ****** whatever ideas that make him care.
Gutter! Gutter! Gutter!

“The world is on fire” cried the voice on the wire, standing in front of her crowds; she called it dire.
The men on the hill, they call her a liar; they’ll snarl as they angrily conspire.
Though, they know that they can never silence her youthful quire.
Little, mighty voice, tell your truths, tell us what you’ve got to say.
You’ll call upon them to find the answers—to find another way—they’ll send you away.
You just don’t understand, do you?
Why can’t they see, see that we haven’t the time for another day?
You’re voice is small but, darling, you’re message is forever here to stay.
Little, mighty voice, speak for those who cannot, speak for us all.
The monsters and their smoke factories must fall, there’s no time left to stall.
Alone you haven’t a chance, but with your one million voices, you’re a thousand feet tall.
It’s upon you that they will call, it’s you that has knocked down the wall.
Little, mighty voice, write down your name in the books of history and lay your claim.
Show the children that you’ve never wanted fame, show them that they needn’t have to play the white housed game.
Ignore those who dare to call you lame; they needed someone to blame.  
A thousand souls look to you, they stand with you—they feel the same.
For one voice may be silenced, a generation of voices shall never be tamed.
Little, mighty voice, let them know who you are; become your own mighty star.
Little, mighty voice, don’t you worry, for the future you see is not far.
Little, mighty voice.

Quiet light enveloped the room—he tightened his grip—he knew and he felt doom.
He lost his mind looking for the things he said he couldn’t find; eyes ripping through from behind.
The television set began to rewind, as it screamed out in a static howl—how kind.
She came to him and said, “Your twisted, wired brain is no longer aligned”.
He broke through the spot where they dined and softly said, “Won’t you be my purple queen? I’ll be your pink king.”
On her finger he slid a gold laden wedding ring, from there he knew she’d sing—they fell together as one fiery thing.
She cried to him, “Oh, love, what should i bring?”
His grimace shouted a reply as he called upon a phone to ring—it’s nothing but ping.
He held in his loose hand his purple queen, declaring himself a pink king of joy and delusion.
Wheels beat the pavement, the air fills with confusion, her heart breaks as it forms a contusion.
He turns his serpent head to her and looks into her for a conclusion; finding nothing short of fusion.
She whimpers, “My sweet king, can’t you see, it’s all an illusion?
He pushes into the striped night, to his right, his purple queen; in his mind his pink king of might.
Rain leans against the glass, droplets sweeping in lines so tight, she loses her fight.
Suddenly, mountains form across his skin, his pupils turn white; his brain flooding with fright.
She asked him if he was alright, so not to seem too polite; he replied with sight.
He can feel it. He can feel his purple queen slipping away. He knows his pink king will never survive that way.
She whispers, “Maybe some day.”
His brain, heart, eyes and soul explode—he shouts, “You don’t say!”
Soon the darkness attacks him, leaving him alone, leaving him without his own heart.
On his knees in the center of the rain slicked street he cries out to the sky, “This could’ve been the best part!”
Then the night kills him.
Where he stood, remains of a forever broken heart; that’s what he called art.
The pink king lost before the start.
The purple queen disappeared into his heart.