Call it ironic but really it’s just hypnotic
Seeing a noose dangling down the ceiling a bit too dramatic.
Who wouldn’t be an addict? To the idea of the end for all wax and plastic.
It’s a bit of a craving for something erratic; I won’t lie.
Feeling ecstatic, statically excited for my last goodbye.

When it’s restriction keeping you from the unholy affliction,
There’s always this small voice of contradiction in your head.
Telling you to stop just as the friction of the rope on your neck has been fed.
A voluntary crucifixion of your depiction of you
Constructing your fiction to world eviction to be true.
Valediction of your own jurisdiction whispering as though
Thinking it through.

Yet I stop, I can’t go through with this.