I can't keep up with this parade comprised of smoke and mirrors. Filters as a euphemism for concealment to hide their imperfections. But frankly, I don't care the way you wear your hair one day to the next.
And the music that you're listening to, that you want to show, tell me, does it sound better when they see it?
The things you use to catch some eyes.
The bait you have to reel them in.
I don't mind.
You're not the same in real life, and you don't want to change.
So go ahead, and drink your drinks. Broadcast your discontents. It makes for the identity you wish to show. An apocalyptic fairytale. A tragic romance. They only care to see you fail, regardless of what the numbers show.
But here it is, a curtain call for all the weak souls. Come, now. Take a bow. The lighting on my stage will show you all for who you really are.
I'm sorry, but it's the truth.
