Woes for the diva

What's the diva to do when she hangs up the crown?
Where does she go when she can't find her crowd?
Woes for the diva who cannot hold her head high...
Ode to the diva who's head is in the sky.
She cannot look in the mirror long enough to fix her makeup.
She doesn't recognize her face.
It's not the one she had before.
Who is that staring back?
No one knows.
She doesn't know.
She has forgotten how to spell out what she needs without another person's words.
She cannot love for long and she cannot love just one.
This diva surrounds herself with many different lives, different loves, different arms, different words.
The diva is a complicated, overrated, degraded shell of her former self.
Where has the diva gone?
No one knows.
They saw her last week, around the corner, down the street.
Or so they say.
They can't truly be sure if it was indeed her since she disappeared so quickly.
But it must've been her.
But why would a diva cry?
This diva has all emotion, but cannot convey how she feels.
The diva finds her way to the bottom of the bottles and other's heels.
This diva is out of touch with reality, running from its harsh beams.
She doesn't care what morals are or where you come from.
She'll treat you just the same, and put you out with others when she's through.  
She needs direction, she needs bright lighting.
She needs someone there to cue her, to dress her, to pursue her.
She needs her medicine, her addiction.
Woes for the diva who cannot hold her head high...
Ode to this diva who is only living out a lie.