The Model

I'm going through some changes at this time. I'm human, poetry in motion and I find that my verses don't even rhyme. I ask so many questions of myself. Is this reality? Can I wish on another shooting star; maybe this time it will shine on someone else. If I walk in or stumble through the door, If I fall down and end up on the floor, or if I wake up as make up on the face of Madonna or Demi Moore; I am a model, does anyone care about the real me anymore? Am I alive or am I a victim of myself. I wear my high heels on the inside of my feet and my skeleton is on the outside of my skin. You can see me looking out at you, but is there ever anybody looking in. My life was a new album and every song has already been overplayed. I used to feel like an ocean and now I am like a lake bed whose waters have all been washed away. If I walk in or stumble through the door, If I fall down and end up on the floor, or if I wake up as make up on the face of Madonna or Demi Moore; I am a model, does anyone care about the real me anymore? Am I alive or am I a victim of myself?