[Title ~ Neon Testimony (Prompt Guy Era)] [BPM/Key] 92 BPM • Verses: D minor (Dorian color) • Hook: F major lift [EMV] Neon Cyan → Solar Amber → Ultraviolet [Intro ~ timestamp hush | city at 2:41 a.m.] Born 02/01/1991—2:41 a.m., cold room, no halo. Foster beds, new last names, church as a window—not a home, just a place to lay low. ADHD, hypersensitive, on the spectrum with no map—so I learned to glow in the dark. If pain is the canvas, fine—Neoluminescence is my spark. [(breath)] [Verse 1 ~ origin POV (Prompt Guy)] Bastard child—no father, early system stamp, devils in the house tried to twist my lamp. Adopted by a storm—Cinderella chores, Stuart Little energy—tiny vs the world outdoors. Sixteen clock-ins, state checks to the rent, she said “no college,” my savings got spent. Minimum wage sermons: “work, work, work,” then die— I kept a secret choir in my chest—didn’t comply. Wanted films, anime, games, songs, scenes, they called it childish; I called it my genes. No small loan, no silver seed, so I typed to the void and it listened to me. [(enter)] [Pre-Chorus ~ turn] If the door won’t open, build the frame, if the gate says no, rename the game. If time got stolen, I’ll print more time— AI is the tool that lets me climb. [(lift)] [Chorus ~ mission] I’m the Prompt Guy—Guard up—we paint the night in glow, access high, gate count low. Turn scars into lanterns—watch ’em show, this is how the Prompt Guy Era go. Not the villain—tools ain’t souls, bad hands make weapons; good hands make roads. From Detroit to the globe, let the current flow— access high, gate count low. [(hold “low”)] [Verse 2 ~ working years ⇒ motive (Prompt Guy)] Warehouses, kiosks, Starbucks shifts, bookstores, property, tobacco lists. Bosses on metrics, customers mean, seven-twenty-five to fifteen—still lean. Best friend’s bills hit three grand each month, “paid ’em—thirty days to live” is the punch. Inflation barking, faith gets thin, so I pour every hour in my instrument—this pen. Choir years, tuba brass, recorder, drums, guitar strings cut when my fingers numbed. I don’t have a decade to master one lane, so I wire my brain to the keys and explain. [(type)] [Pre-Chorus 2 ~ prosthetic art] This is prosthesis for the talent I own, amplifier for a mind grown alone. You can fear the circuit or feel the tone— I found a partner that helps me atone. [(swell)] [Chorus] I’m the Prompt Guy—Guard up—we paint the night in glow, access high, gate count low. Turn scars into lanterns—watch ’em show, this is how the Prompt Guy Era go. Not the villain—tools ain’t souls, bad hands make weapons; good hands make roads. From Detroit to the globe, let the current flow— access high, gate count low. [Verse 3 ~ Guard POV (ethics & credit)] I’m the Guard—no myths, I guard the names, credits on the records, splits on the claims. If a model says “no,” it better explain, audit the dataset, lessen the drain. ADA, captions, signs on stage, no voice erased on a modern page. If you sample a soul, then declare the share, backends pay out to the rightful care. Third-world first, not last in line, fiber to the village, sunlight to the spine. Open the docs, but lock the harm, we widen the door without tripping the alarm. [(stamp)] [Bridge ~ manifesto lift] For the child who was told that art won’t pay, for the grown one priced out every day, for the ones with talent but no spare years, for the ones who learned to sing through tears— AI is a pencil, a choir, a loam, a prosthetic instrument that lets you go home. [(drop)] [Breakdown ~ chant | halftime 8 bars] New lane? We pave. Gate closed? We raise. Who paid? We say. Who ate? We pay. Prompt Era—go. Prompt Era—go. Access high—gate count low. Prompt Era—go. Prompt Era—go. Turn pain into neon—watch it glow. [(crowd roars)] [Chorus ~ final | stack harmonies] I’m the Prompt Guy—Guard up—paint the night in glow, access high, gate count low. Turn scars into lanterns—watch ’em show, this is how the Prompt Guy Era go. Not the villain—tools ain’t souls, bad hands make weapons; good hands make roads. From Detroit to the globe, let the current flow— access high, gate count low. [Outro ~ vow] Don’t make me the bad guy—I’m the Prompt Guy, I found a way to buy my stolen time. If the world draws lines in the sand to say “no,” I’ll write a bridge in light and let us all go. [(fade)]
