Media blinding my eyesight from seeing the real me.
Constantly reminding my definition of beauty will never win a Grammy or headline as breaking news.
Suffocating my space with advertisements to lose weight.
I am surprised I haven't taken drastic measures to minimize my size to please their pleasure.
It's a seed of self hate planted in my brain unconsciously I fight it off with honesty but honestly it's so cancerous I pray it doesn't take over my soul.
Truth be told I would love to be the 24/7 make-up doll every man falls on his knees for satisfying her every need.
What good would I be if I wore a mask pretending I loved walking around painted with deceit?
My role models are celebrities not historians because the world would rather breed me to idolize another human being manipulated for me to be just like her...
The domestic violence bad girl a singing superstar publicly crying for help,
drugs and the spotlight has stolen her wealth.
The cocaine skinny actress that is seconds away from overdosing her roles 6 feet deep.
The pretty whore who sleeps around for millions mistaking love for money gained at any cost.
Why should I feel lost and unworthy of special treatment because my funds won't allow me spontaneous vacations, my clothes not outrageous enough for Paris fashion pages.
My hair not down to my behind in diva hairstyles everytime you see me.
Why do I not want to be me?
It's the struggle.
Mini me's plotting to escape from inside me,
anxious to sketch out my crime scene and write the obituary to finalize me.
Somehow I manage to crawl through the barbed wire bleeding flesh and arms tired, at least I still have my dignity. When times change and I begin to be a household name I would hope the spotlight doesn't memorize me.
If you see my eyes glazed and ways start to change, I give you permission to crucify me.
I would rather die than live a lie free.
Brooke Jean (C) 2012
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