Catastrophic calamity
Souls made of blasphemy
On the down low
The World as a whole
Had turned to anarchy
And it's a shame there's no name
For all this antirelgious hate
Spreading across the world
Like a facebook game
Everyone looking for a high score
All in the name of fame

The coca-******* parties
The weekend spews at 10
The cycle of sleeping and *******
Repeats itself again
The brown, the crack, the ****, the smack
Fuel her replica world
It’s a far off cry from the glamorous life
Promised to the matchstick girl

A head of hair thatched upon
Walls of weak foundation
The chic new style to fill the aisles
And sweep entire nations.
She’s Bambi on ice in a dress so tight
It would make your mother hurl
But we live in a time where all women pine
For the look of the matchstick girl

The big old Pappa Razzi
Guard her every step
From the same hold-hand fanatics
That crave her vinous breath
The punks, the queens, the teenage dreams
Who buy their love with pearls
Stick close to her side and somewhat abide
They’re friends with the matchstick girl.

The Sunday evening voicemails
The daily text of pain
From a desolated mother
Who begs to see her again.
The pleas, the cries, the tears don’t dry
While apologies unfurl
For the sins, the aches and major mistakes
Made by the matchstick girl.

Constant beauty and contract signing,
Steps outside the door to flashing lights,
Cameras,
From center stage:

Her bedroom of anxiety.

Greeted by the sea of paparazzi,
They seem less genuine than a crowd of assassins,

Only reporting on things that will tear down a reputation,

Publicity that weighs on the soul.

Notoriety was never supposed to make it hard to breathe,
But the only soft air comes on the end of ****** needles
That one day will pass too much relief into your veins

And make a pop star that much more famous.

All the animals scurry through the vast woods,
they secretly look across the field to see two legged animals.
Follow them home,
stare at the home,
oh what a beautiful home.
"But look!"
Said one deer in lonesome fascination
"The heads of our brethren hang there"
"Why not us?"
"How much less beautiful must we be?"
They scurry back.
Quickly, quickly! To tell the others.

"What a majestic meaning in life...to be a wall hanging,
I must become a creature worthy of this life"
They all said in unison.

As hunters come and go, all but the lucky ones get their wish granted,
and the rest have the minds to run fast and chauvinistically,
to show off, in hopes of being hung for the world to admire.
Without a soul, and never the free will that the forest granted.

And as one deer is shot, all young doe frantically scream...
"can't you believe it, I knew him before he was along the wall!"
and...
"He wagged his tail at me, you saw it, he really did!"

Watching one single leaf, while it flutters through the air,
upon cloudy blue skies, my reality starts to tear:
as beauty; this I need, to live happily; indeed,

I don't need riches or fame,
I don't need to rule,
or have a much uttered name...

All I need is to enjoy, simple beauty and peace,
to be able to create, using art as my release,
all emotions, bad and good,
only carvings in deadwood...  

All I need is to enjoy, the work of my hands under the sky,
as I live peacefully, while decades pass me by.

Open up your eyes we're all disguised, we're hypnotized. We have overdosed with these pointless posts just to see how much we can boast. We're all trapped liquid inside a bottle that is wrapped with a title named "social media" We're all to blame, cause all we dig for is fame. Acceptance is where we find our bliss, but is all of this worth being blind

I’m not going to make money by
Creating some clever gadget.
That costs too much for advertising
To fit in my future budget.
I’m not going to write a book yet
Because they are hard to sell.
I decided against self-help seminars.
Sitting through those is hell.

I’m not going to learn hairdressing
So I can be a pricey hair ******.
I’m not going to write recipes to show
A hundred ways to use a blender.
I ruled out auditioning for **** flicks
I’m far to shy for all that.
I won’t be trying to make viral videos
Of adorable fuzzy little cats.

You won’t be hearing any hit songs
Written by me, myself and I.
I can’t carry a tune and can’t rhyme
So, right away I won’t even try.
I can’t paint and I can’t draw at all
So, I won’t be a world-class artist.
I won’t become a rocket scientist
In math I was never the smartest.

I'm not going to start some con game
And leave them all in the lurch.
Well, in a manner of speaking I am,
Because I'm starting a church.
I’ll spend tons of money on my home
And make a big flashy cathedral
Then spend lots of time bragging
How it’s all so very spiritual.

People will send me lots of cash thinking.
That will get them into heaven.
I’ll make more money selling God to them
Than owning a thousand 7-11s.
I’ll only need to convince my followers that
I have the get-out-of-hell-free card;
That I am the path to understanding God
And that just can’t be that hard.

like to see what they see
I'd like to be what I'm going to be
right now, not then, not later,
not someday.
Just when I thought I was going to be a bad picture,
they bet their money on me,
have so much hope for me,
know me, believe in me
think of me as some great thing.

I disagree
They insist.
They spend their money to see me.
I tell them beauty is relative,
but they make way
for me
and I indulge
in my fame.

This isn't the love I want,
but they love me anyway.