In the mirror of your ego, you see a masterpiece, but I’m the art critic.
Every selfie you take whispers, ‘Look at me, the world revolves around this.’
Your reflection must be tired of all the compliments you give it.
You paint your reality with the colors of your own delusion.
Love yourself so much; it’s a full-time job for everyone else.
When you speak, the universe listenswith a smirk.
You’re not just the star of your own show; youre the entire cast.
If confidence were gold, youd be a billionaire.
You could turn even a compliment into an applause for yourself.
In your world, every road leads back to your throne.
Your charm could light up a dark roomif it werent so practiced.
The more you admire your reflection, the less space there is for others.
Even shadows know to follow you; they need validation too.
You could sell ice to an Eskimo, as long as youre the one in the spotlight.
The love you seek is just a mirror waiting to echo back at you.
In a world full of stars, you insist on being the sun.
Your heart is a stage where only you perform, every night.
If you were any more self-absorbed, youd be a black hole.
You wear your self-love like a crowntoo heavy for your own head.
Every story you tell begins and ends with you, as the hero.
In the book of life, youve written yourself as the only character.
Your playlist only plays your greatest hits on repeat.
You see yourself as a lighthouse, but youre more like a funhouse mirror.
Even the sun cant outshine the light you claim to give.
You could train a parrot to recite your praises, and it still wouldnt be enough.
In your fantasy world, every quest leads to your own shrine.
You collect compliments like trophies, proud of your display case.
The only thing louder than your voice is your silence when youre not the center.
You build walls of admiration around you, but forget to let anyone in.
If only your humility matched your bravado.
You could drown in your own reflection and call it a deep end.
You boast about your successes; theyre just echoes of your own voice.
Life for you is a runway, and every gaze must be on your ensemble.
You light up a room, but sometimes it feels like its just for effect.
Your ego must have its own zip code with how much space it occupies.
You march to the beat of your own drum; others just watch the parade.
With every word, you seek applause more than connection.
Your narrative could put a soap opera to shamefull of drama, lacking depth.
You could win an award for the best supporting role in your own life.
Your laughter is contagious, but it often drowns out the truth.
You shine so bright that you forget the stars exist too.
Every compliment feels like a drop in your ocean of self-thought.
You chase reflections, but the substance is always out of reach.
In the game of self-love, youre both the player and the referee.
Your life is a movie where the only plot twist is your endless monologue.