Neo-Suicide

Creeping tendrils, fungal cordyceps, grabbing hamstrings by the bone, Stunting pain in muscled biceps, stretch as if they work alone. No matter far nor long I run, no matter time, not record, Confidence degenerates in ton, and waste is felt in effort. Mind is but contained—by signal—swiveled text from cornered row. Watching bounces—screens—too seen, in later times I shouldn’t know. I can hear now lampposts hum, against my windowpanes, Whispered effervescent hymns, “'tis late you scattered brains.” No Signal floats in silent strokes, laughing at my gaze, Whose lack of locus out of focus, undeveloped micros—soft amaze. Operating systems; hidden files twitch betwixt glitched fingers' flick. Tracked strokes, glued electric hitch, to melt around the wick. Which witch or whose hurt vocal pitch, has hounded throats sucked dry? Mine own is cuckold by songman’s itch, to stitch this lyric higher. Vyvanse tickles subvocalization: Schizophrenic telepathy. Hearing echoed me(s) in nation: "We’re better as entelechy." I want a better world, I see it in my mind, When I have the energy in bursts, to see what’s left behind. “We’re more than this," says drunken me, to the overdosed drugged mind. “We’re less than this," says sober me, to the hopeless handed kind. From which does hope arise; the latter: Joy's annihilation? Or the former, and hides inside of Anger's continuation? I’m lost inside a tesseract, four dimensions fighting war. Between the self-suicide pact; 'tis but a wish for lore.