dead ends

you keep telling me i have to sell myself
like some used up hooker on a street corner
flashing too much flesh to attract another john
just so she can pay a pimp not to beat her up again

you keep telling me that’s showbiz, baby,
now go get comfortable on that casting couch
so you can strip for the director in a private audition
for the part you want so badly you’ll do anything to get it

you keep telling me i asked for all of this shit
to make the most of these fleeting fifteen minutes
before my clock expires and i’m just another has-been
desperate to hold onto the fickle fame of a one-hit wonder

you keep telling me i owe you for all of your work
to open wide doors a nobody couldn’t begin to jimmy
and making me a star when i wasn’t even a household name
until the spotlight turned me into america’s newest little darling

you keep telling me to keep it real in this plastic town
but i should reinvent myself by getting a little “work” done
to look oh-so-young with a frozen barbie face like everyone else
too afraid to show a wrinkle lest they get passed over for a starring role

you keep telling me lies just so you can make some moolah
from leads that turn into dead ends for a career on the brink of
being one of those “where are they now?” segments on late-night tv
that has people scratching their heads because they can’t recall you at all.


Written June 26-27, 2014.


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