It’s sad to see what fame can consume,
Your soul, your name,
The world becomes a game.
To be famous,
Is such a fleeting purpose,
Replaced each week,
By the next beauty in focus.
The world all sees you,
But they will never know you,
Remembered in an altered identity,
Created by society.
How lonely that must be,
To have crowds flock,
But no hand to touch.
People stripping you with glances,
Nothing left that’s sacred.
A product on the assembly line,
All used up,
Machines picking and pulling,
Lack of human touch.
Black ink spreads webs of lies,
Stepping on others,
Enjoying people cry.
Our country is free,
But we create our own chains.
We seek refuge in fantasy,
Pile trash in our reality.
The joke only becomes serious,
When it’s turned on us.
Those harsh words:
“Fat, ugly, disgraceful”,
Who are we to judge?
