My death will be on the cover of Time (maybe Rolling Stones, my agent's working on it)

Here I am
such a primadonna
a pretentious new face in fame
throwing 5 pm fits
where the fuck is my Starbucks frappucino
behind dressing room doors
another televised day in the life of...
a manufactured
plastic
egotistical
posterboy
staring at the sun
just to seem that much more real
that's a little Hollywood movie term
called scene setting
but now that i've seen it
my eyes are shaking
the mirror is a tremor
and I'm staring at something dead, but familiar
where I used to see myself
I see another fake encore for the audience
You would think I would have given up
after each performance
there is no applause
there is no audience
left again to my room
to certain and impending doom
of internet pornography
and suicide threats
on a daily basis
wannabe cocaine shootouts
late night sex runs
this is the life of a celebrity
gone wrong