The Acid Journalist

Cut out all the stimulants
my minds on overdrive
this clarity is killing me
how am i still alive?

The curtain has been raised
it reveals a man
pulling at the levers
in any way he can

no one is really
what I think I see
Everyone is not
who they seem to be

(break)

(spoken)
binary hypertextual virtual dreamscape
scars hippocampus bestial infinite scroll feeds

digital signals endlessly recieved
bio-chemical stimulation forms as dopamine

syntax searchbar serves up
quick fix hits of inconsistant shit

preyed upon grey matter worshipping
alters of manufactured myths

Love & Truth are just projections on a screen
laid out brain prone to sights set by memetic assassins

only the tallest tales are effortlessly weaved
AI interconnected monitors a quantum of synaptic nodes

Military neuroscience projects into your fears
wagging panting puppyeyed Pavlovdog satiates on dripfeed

and no one seems to know whats true or real
Can't connect to how they think or feel
Butterflies pinned on boards in frames
subject to vast experimental game
eternally morphing post truth non linear landscape

before humanity, hoarse from
a silent scream can reproach

Pandora opens her shopfront

The four horsemen approach the bench

Everyone is dosed
can you see the joins
a reality designed
through enforcing choice
this is not how
it's supposed to be
it only takes
a few lost souls
to see

no one is really
what I think I see
Everyone is not
who they seem to be