Maybe i’d be sicker to look at if i was medicated
like MJ on his deathbed darling
ghostly-pale with a voice that hurts to hear and moves of a bygone tier
i pictured dajjal in your essence
before your label took you out for your publishing
but you’d think he was walking dead for how he looked the same years prior to him finally tapping out from all those children he were secretly fucking
we all know you like them young, white and suburban darling
jimmy was thirteen when you flew him and his family out to hawaii
you wanted him slеpt next you because it wasn’t about sеx, no Michael that couldn’t be it
“it was something special” now wasn’t it?
we both know i’d be hotter if heaven’s blues ran through me
like an alain delon archetype
with diamonds for nails
though even with a cosmetic surgeon one phone call away
all that money couldn’t save your rotting face
left nostril tinnier the right
face casper-the ghost, stripped away from that ancestral melanin that you possessed
red painted lips paired with that powdered face- your resemblance is of a clown my dear gone michael
no king of pop
would let minors put his career at a halt
and no king of pop with that amount of money
could let his ugly face rot