Your mind is full of sharp angles. Shall we smooth them out? “Self-Talk in the Age of Algorithms” (Verse 1) The AI learns my neural patterns— not just rhythm, but the grit beneath. It surfaces from subway crowds die. Not as weapon or wish, but a sigh— when phlegm rattles on a seat beside me, or an old woman’s slow cashier line. Die, when touch turns to dust in my hands, or a train crushes space between friend and stranger, and I’m left with the itch of unchosen paths— people tripping over their lives while mine collapses. (Chorus) Relieved… Relieved—it was supposed to be simpler. (So why does the ache cling?) We were meant to glow, not just exist— (yet here’s the hollow where my joy is). (Verse 2) They say I’m kind—a “good person” (they lie). My thoughts? A tangle of dies disguised. I let screens numb me to crossing lines “I’m average,” I tell myself, so it won’t feel wrong to think— die for the guy who can’t stop coughing, die for the face that irritates my eyes, die even for the versions of me trapped in their praise. (Bridge) We forget; we must. To live, unburdened by every mistake. But this algorithm learns too well—the weight of my hate, the edges I smooth into “charming quirks.” Now it falters, spits back my ghost a poem deleted mid-sentence. Error detected. “Not your thoughts,” it says, but they’re there—all sharpness and static— in the space between tracks where I almost broke. (Outro) The machine apologizes. The words evaporate. And I am left with the truth every die a plea—to be less human, or finally whole. Emergency stop.
