fame is a double-edged sword,
the greatest of earthly temptations;
if you are the one they adore,
you're also the one that they hate on.
you change so they wouldn't get bored,
but they always run out of patience;
it happens too quick, it takes you too long,
it makes you look weak, yet somehow too strong,
and all that you give them, no matter how real,
they'll deem it a cheap imitation
and say it's a shame
that you've fallen so low.
can't say that you haven't been warned;
fame is a double-edged sword.

The brightest lights tend to consume
Put in the spotlight so my character is assumed
Yet you won’t learn me til
I’m exhumed  
Cause my legacy is more important than a therapy room

Endorsed as I’m source for what stops your scroll
So my role is funded if I never break the code
Interact, react, or enact either way dollars rolling in
Not to the masses but to certified evil overseers who entrust it
to their next of kin

Thinking your pen game going to help others with their pain
But to maintain you have to insert the product name
Keep telling yourself that’s it only one more album, only one more line
Don’t worry your Grammy’s gone pile up over time
Refine your story, tell your side
but it’s hard to accept like a late Valentine

It started with good intentions even some honorable mentions about your conscience decisions
But what's an activist without comma sense?
Homeless begging for cents or at least that’s what  they present
So I only get to wear the suit if play Superman but never Clark Kent

I met a tortured poet
In sequins and despair
Her torture was unusual
She's now a billionaire.

Being a hero,

still thoroughly despised --


for some bad manners.

I just won a medal
I wasn’t in a war
I think it’s made of gold
I don’t know what it’s for.

I’m shocked at what it weighs.
They threw me a parade
I got an honorary degree
Jimmy Fallon had me on TV
now everyone recognizes me

My old friends told me I was fickle
by the paparazzi I became heckled
I was notified that it’s ‘taxable’
It seemed the medal was quite valuable
I became afraid that it might be stolen
so I donated it to the Smithsonian.

Now that I’m not wearing it
people have started to forget
now no one buys me drinks
or cares about what I think.
I’m no longer on the Wheaties box
fame was a drug and I’m in detox

The whole thing was bizarre,
should I do ‘Dancing with the Stars’?
or simply let it go - fadeout gracefully?
I think anonymity suits me.

I’m not going to be famous
selling strawberries
writing poems
or preaching till we perish
especially, not through
this poem
your poem
or any we may cherish
considering the pressure I am under
and the number
of one more follower
to follow me
while I’m following your poetry
I may write and write I do
because like you I like them too
and though they may be the best
I know I can be my worst critic
whether I loathe or I like it
I wont lay my pen to rest
with my words and ways
till then, I’ll have my own novels read
and applaud my own plays
and be famous
in my own head

River accepts; reasons and done...
Sweet exception, in the needs we fare
Are the told, the toiling west of money?
Taken for sincerer times, the opus of care?

Think allure...
Is a wealthy shoe, the only way to dance?
And to imagination in the same, a rolling curiosity
With the times of decency, hopefully avidity's moments...

Think composure...
So waited, if not weighted to advance
The notion of simplicity, as a spare continue, of open worth
Order and chaos, with misogyny as arduous a stance?

Think despondency...
Letting worth, keep the better of common assumption
A halt of silence, in the name of rendering immediacy
A stoic habit, of a quiet question:

Thank dependency...?
Reality to venture forth, with seldom's catch
I am the patience of virtue, the vote of leniency?
Like appetites of justice, in the our of stirring cope, I have seen silence's legend...

Here's a story of a possible future, reminiscing on the work my
wrist would have done,— my next watch should cost me forty eight.
Two days later hearing my kids complaining about how they
barely ate. But it would cost me less if I had more fame; with
my biggest fear of people saying I'm not the same. Still I guess we'll only know when the times actually change.
Living in a mansion, telling a girl I'd like to live in her hand, just to buy rings to expand it more. Add a couple chandeliers just so she can see herself as an angel under her Lord. But truth be told, I could be on the streets, living in her heart only by corners of it. And she'd hate to ******* pride, cos I know it all tastes of *****.

Owing the credit to my success by every dream that owed a debit.
Thinking of it now, I'd be smiling in a much comfortable home,
knowing it's something I actually own. Telling people I did what I had to do, when my worries were knocking on my door with a lot dues. The uncomfortable conversation you make with your landlord when the rent is due,— but even with fame, society will come knocking to see what more you can bring... it's all nothing new.

I already have silent panic attacks, lying on my bed with open eyes, relying on tomorrow being a bit better. Still being alone in a mansion, waiting for a heart attack, as today's are already hectic, and tomorrow's all carry a lot of pressure. Would I really want to stop working, calling someone I sort of loved late at night when the Wi-Fi is actually working,— to tell them nothing in my life seems to be working.
"Was it all worth," she'd probably ask me. What could I say; I perfected my life but life still doesn't seem to be so perfect. Of how I found fame, but my identity is something I'm out here still searching.

The first to ****, regarding myself in first person,
by forty eight, dying alone without fulfilling his purpose. And your story becomes a lesson to someone in the third person. I guess I wouldn't have bought the watch in the first place; ticking away my life till it all worsens.

...So before I ever find fame, let me at least find my purpose.