The Pedestal People

Woke up curled like a napkin. Dreams all loud and half Latin. Had a choir of influencers chantin’, “Bow down to the captions!” You ain’t my cousin or co-worker, Not my shaman or soul server. Just because you got followers Don’t mean you part of my own fervor. I’ve been giving out grace like coupons, Back when my gut said, “move on.” Watched ’em hype up folks with screw-ons, And I sat back quiet with my shoes off. Did too much inner analyzin’, Put my heroes on Spotify’s rising alignment. Then I saw ’em up close, and it’s wild how They forget to wash their stylin’. I been stuck on that “should I send this?” Typing drafts like repentance, Screenshot life with a sentence, Still cringin’ from every mention. Even smart ones can get dull-bladed, Make shrines out of shit that’s outdated. I once cried ‘cause a blue-check deflated, Then blamed myself and overstated. You’re not my mom, not my hero, Not my charge, not my chemo, Not my roots, not my libido. What the hell do I cling to? (This is prayer for the pedestal people.) Get out my fridge, you ain’t my eagle, Not my star, not my cathedral. (This is prayer for the pedestal people.) Ain’t no name tag that can cleanse ya, Don’t care if your face is on a Fender. I seen Bible bangers eat churros, Then lie straight through their dentures. I seen actors turn thinkers, Then turn back into drinkers. Watched the “next big thing” dissolve Like a sandcastle in a sprinkler. You ain’t my guru, not my compass, Not my “follow me” subconscious. You just post like once a day, And it’s soft spined blurbs with no substance. Got your feet up on your platform, But your house still got ants on the back porch. I don’t praise, I report now, I take walks, I abort crowds. Even Joe Rogan gotta wipe twice, Even Spielberg gets stage fright. I ain’t building you a throne Just ‘cause you light up a mic right. You not exempt from the burps and itches, Flat tires, pinkeye, kitchen dishes. Even legends miss the mark, Get praised, then block fan mentions. You’re not my mom, not my hero, Not my charge, not my chemo, Not my roots, not my libido. What the hell do I cling to? (This is prayer for the pedestal people.) Get out my fridge, you ain’t my eagle, Not my star, not my cathedral. (This is prayer for the pedestal people.) Yeah, I once wrote fan mail, Then burned it before the stamp failed. Felt dumb for admirin’ A grown-ass man with a brand tale. I used to quote folks religious, Now I just fold my wishes Into paper boats and send ’em Down the drain with the dirty dishes. I don’t need a new messiah, With a merch code and ghostwriter. I just want my thoughts back From the podcasts and those buyers. You’re not my mom, not my hero, Not my charge, not my chemo, Not my roots, not my libido. What the hell do I cling to? (This is prayer for the pedestal people.) Get out my fridge, you ain’t my eagle, Not my star, not my cathedral. (This is prayer for the pedestal people.) You ain’t my beacon, you ain’t my reset button. You just some dude with a blue lamp and a click rate. I pray I stop prayin’ to strangers.