Mudstained and eye deep,
In false hope that I keep,
Using to survive the day.
Mindfull of watchers,
Obescene little voyers,
I want to hate them all,
But I can't see them at all.
Eyes burning holes in, 
The grubby and darkend,
Things I hold before my face.
Dirty hands attached to fithy arms,
And a heart and mind that just seem to match.
Lonely and broken,
Laying in a streetcorner,
Surrounded by wrinkled newspapers,
With crumpled headlines.
Nobody knows me, nobody cares.
And when I shut my eyes there's nobody there.
Violet emotions, crimson like the sky,
Above me like the grey of the grass below.
They hoop and they holler, 
Cultured in squalor,
Thinking they really know what they know.
If they had seen what I have, 
Would they smile so clean?
Or would they be filthy too, 
Just like they see me?
And then would my dirty hands be clean?