Fame-Junkies

Suckling the tit of power’s engorged conceit,
fame-junkies stay hooked on their insecurity,
like a populous of emphysema victims
pulling behind their processed oxygen,
the need to keep their bubble of death-stall pumping.

Ambition often longs for more frequent feeding times,
those memorable moments of panic,
when the applause meter,
the cradled effect of being held close
to the nipple of sustenance,
looks as if it’s waning.

From craving’s captive infancy,
through childhood and the perpetual adolescence of identity,
staying in lock step for mealtime ticket punchers
in order to reach life’s grown up food remains elusive,
forever teasing us toward a different kind of gratification,
unaware the urban marsupial prison
is the single place no one escapes
once we have sentenced ourselves.

How alluring the entrapment,
even as it touts a way to escape,
convincing the shackled ones
that an improved formula exists,
extending beyond the pouch of mommy dependence,
bottled synthetic substitutes,
and even fame, fortune and power itself.

Unfortunately…

Too few experience the epiphany
revealing the seductive nature of motherdom as ageless,
offering its always short-lived comfort zone of warmth
without prejudice, available in many sizes, shapes, agendas, and, oh yes… we must not forget the rewards.

Yet…

Quite often at some point,
the notoriety we thought was ours,
the wealth we felt entitled to,
and the might we felt was earned,
is taken back, lifted from the attachment of our wants,
leaving us wailing from within,
recognizing for the first time
the other kind of isolation:
meeting the real vulnerable self for the first time.

Frightening for many.