This Is Not The Masquerade Ball

To hell with the magazines, the mirror.
Such decadence so sadly grows.
Not well hidden is a heart of stone.
Cameras flash, they'll know you.
You're well acquainted with all the wrong reasons.
Go take your runway, your dancefloor and burn it to the ground.
I'm pissing on your discotheque.
Swinging hips disregard ubiquity.
Thus I defile the graves of those who planned to dig my own.
Make me a martyr for my cause.
Another gilded age in a gilded generation.
My words will defend that which I have made my own.
In the middle of all the excess, you will find yourself swallowed whole.
You're drained and bathed in nothingness.
Allow me to hollow out what remains.
Foundation for the soul; you're running on empty.
You'll shatter like shards from the mirror.
I'm burning the pages of these magazines.
Burning like bridges, like bodies, like churches.
Inside you're nothing.