I wonder for fame and flashing lights
would I be willing to depart with my normal life
as if hollywood stars are from another planet
we treat these actors as if they were truly alien and demanded our respect
like a U.S. president,
and our aspirations to be thee leaves our souls with a dent
your marks on our image is apparent
the bills for plastic surgery makes it so evident
in a rush to sculpt our bodies like we are made of marble
only thing we really gain is a stone heart of sorrow
lose our souls to the sole of the big money giant
whip us back into slaves instead call us clients
of the many types and occupation
we all work for the man its oppression
but during a recession,
depression is for sure,
the magic dragon is the cure
but still leaves me with this burning question...
would I trade my soul for flashing lights
pack the old me up in a closet out of sight
then assuredly a trip to the grave inside
for I gave my soul up for money
and have died
to become one of those
imprisoned flashing lights
trapped like bugs in a glass jar who
want so badly to light the sky
ill never be your slave, not ever again
not whipped on the outside but on the spirit within
not in public view on a magazine stand but inside
no one would know my true
worries in life
no real friends left in which to confide
they'll tell my lifes latent content like fairy tales to fill their pockets with dimes
I know greenbacks with dead faces won't fulfill my life
but damn, I just can't help but to chase down those flashing lights