My idols lied to me,

their hollow promises flicker

like neon lights through a smoky 

screen,

each frame a glimmer of distant 

dreams.

I packed my bags, followed their

path, 

tracing footprints on asphalt,

only to find the pavement

cracked,

a mirage dissolving in the heat of 

echoes.

Turns out Hollywood's bloody,

the famous wear masks of fame, 

their beauty seams frayed,

no Photoshop could disguise the

scars.

I wanted the truth wrapped in 

stars,

but the glitter hid the bruises,

the glamour, a veil of deceit,

my heart, a casualty of ambition's 

war.

Facing all these suits with their 

rehearsed lines,

they smile, saying, "I'm sorry,"

but I see the void behind their 

eyes, 

the words hollow as the promises

I chased.

No, you're not sorry,

you're just another ghost in a 

spotlight,

cloaked in fabrications,

and I stand here, a shattered 

reflection.