They don’t really want me
Posed for the glam cams,
Smokey eyes smoldering,
As I strut the come-hither catwalk
Or grace the red carpet.
They don’t want me ready
For my close-up,
Glittery as a popinjay,
Parroting my agent’s points.
They’d rather catch me unawares,
Weeks later,
In a ripped Ramones tee,
Hungover on an unkempt beach.
My hair in a haystack.
My eyes carpet-baggers.
They want me brushing my teeth
And sitting in the loo.
They want me weepy, with relish
On my chin, my toes
Ugly as sin.
Your paparazzi need me
In the wings, uncertain,
Accident-prone, impaled by an instance
I never saw coming:
As in an orgasm,
As in a collision with you.
About the Creator
P. D. Murray
Murray is an accomplished painter and writer.
Through 2010, he was shown exclusively by Treehouse Studio Galleries. His work hangs in private collections around the world. He's also published 5 books. You can see more at www.pdmurray.art
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