If you are reading this, you might know the tune. It’s the song the world plays for its outcasts, its broken romantics, its gutter trash. And yes, I wear that last term like a badge of honor. A serenade is supposed to be sweet. It’s a lover standing beneath a balcony, promising the moon. But a cruel serenade? That is the promise of the moon followed by the reality of a knife.
Cruel Serenade for the Gutter Trash: An Ode to the Beautiful Damned cruel serenade gutter trash
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. If you are reading this, you might know the tune
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. A serenade is supposed to be sweet