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The Real Definition of Fame

You’re plastic;
You’re perfect;
You’re manufactured.
That smile on your face is permanently plastered.
You’re the newest toy that everybody wants;
You’re just the hottest thing.
And in your big, made world you flaunt;
And you grab your mic and sing.

You’re pretty and petite,
And the media loves you.
But nobody knows the truth.
That, in reality, you hardly ever eat.
Truth is, you no longer like what you do.

You sit at home, by yourself;
You’re truly all alone.
And when he glitz and glamour fades away,
You don’t have a proper place to call home.

You cry,
You hurt,
You kick,
You yell,
You wish you could escape.
But at the end of the day, you’re stuck in this hell.
Because the paparazzo’s still in love with your face.

They exploit you for their own self benefit,
They don’t care what they must do.
As long as they get their winning scoop,
They’ll casually rip your career in two.



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This article has 2 comments. Post your own!

HoundDog ;D said...
Jul. 27, 2011 at 3:25 pm:
So true. I love how you wrote the poem as if you were personally talking to a celebrity. It was awesome!<3
 
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Anagam said...
Jul. 22, 2011 at 3:15 pm:
WOW! speechless... love it a million times
 
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