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!