Everyone is at it again.
Crucifying me at day,
but when night strikes, the same guarantee my pay.
I can’t remember which hurt more, my tattoos or this hypocrisy.
They say the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice
but me, am just here, wondering why I get paid for the skin toning.
Hypocrites! Quoting African proverbs, but living Mexican soap operas.
See, that young little girl just won’t say it,
but we know she would want them,
big mollies, bum that makes them turn
not forgetting the less strenuous hair.
That same man wont say it.
But guess who wants ‘a lady in the streets, but a freak at home.’
Deep down we know what we want.
You know what you want.
I used to know what I wanted too…
I wanted fame!all of it, and the money to go with it.
And my did I get it! Quite easily too.
But what I really wanted, I can not buy.
Eyes that look at me and really see me.
Hands that hold, but not in exchange for money.
Words that don’t always hurt.
Will anyone ever look and see me?
The pain, the heartbreak, the emptiness,
the vanity of all this?
Will those who believe in God,
ask Him for me, “Why this path,why me,what went wrong, is there solace in the end?
Or will they just continue to hate me with their mouths and worship me with their eyes?
Will anyone dare to look and see the real Sera?
Enough with the diary, I have an appointment with Dr, Light-man.
Until the next controversy,