Superstars and Washed-up Dreams

None of us are what we seem.

Covert artist, shrouding our passions in secrecy.

We have mastered hiding

our voices like government expenditure records.

But just off the hill, there is a basement that knows us as superstars.

Pinstripe suit jacket

Soul singer in yuppie disguise.

Miniskirt lush sharing her soul

in Janis Joplin bellows.

Black guy with country roots

Boot scoot boogieing across the stage.

Tonight, we are the rockstars!

We hide in mundane flesh and business attire.

The dreadlocked expectations;

The shocking shrill of his dreaming on Aerosmith-ed wings.

Within this fortress, we are welcome.

Hosted by a band of traveling vagabonds,

musical genies granting our dwindling childhood wishes.

The honey badger hungers for just due.

We just want to do another song.

There is no justice.

Just us all,

believing that our dreams can come true.

For riches, the adoration of fans,

The freedom of singing poorly and the acceptance that follows.

Come forth all stars begging to ignite!

Let your mild-mannered self die.

Commit HariKaraoke, and be reborn a god!

 

 

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