The gutter trash are the poets who work the night shift. They are the artists who paint with stolen spray paint on condemned walls. They are the lovers who love too hard, break too easily, and drink to forget that they feel everything.
You don't cover your ears. You don't pretend you can't hear it. cruel serenade gutter trash
To the world, we are trash. To each other, we are family. And to the night, we are the only ones awake enough to hear the real music—the cruel, honest, serenade of the damned. The gutter trash are the poets who work the night shift
But here, in the alley behind the dive bar, we have reclaimed it. You don't cover your ears
You lean into the gutter. You light a match. You listen to the melody of your own mangled, beautiful, broken heart.
This is the song that gets stuck in your head right as you hit rock bottom. It’s the melody that plays while you’re digging through the dumpster for a cigarette butt or walking home at 3 AM with a busted lip and an empty wallet.
Cruel Serenade for the Gutter Trash: An Ode to the Beautiful Damned