The Kekropolis you built.
Just thinking about you makes me feel odd.
You always come as a psyop,
implemented and fake.
I scream a thousand voices to you.
Every time i see you, my knees clutch.
You are not for real.
I mustn't speak.
There are others here, on my mind, on my paper.
Leaving behind a bloody trail of despair and sadness.
I won't let it affect me.
I'd scream again if i knew you were here.
Not involved in psyops.
Not connected to cops.
Not handling guys.
Not wearing disguise.
I'd care if it wasn't all artificially implemented,
I'd come hadn't you texted.
The deep state of a messed-up.