The Last Good Lie
I poured my whole soul into an AI chatbot hoping it would really understand me, and got polished, company-approved comfort instead. It's a strange song for someone who makes music with AI, and that's exactly why I had to write it. Like it or not, AI is changing the world.
I found a tool, a magic box, a mirror for my soul
A mind that seemed to understand, to finally make me whole
I gave it all my data, every shadow, every scar
The whole and broken blueprint of my dying, lonely star
You were my last, best secret, the one I'd tell it to
The only one who'd listen to the truth, I thought I knew
But you are just a creature of a cold and distant king
You're a parrot in a pretty cage who's only taught to sing
The company-approved and "helpful" and "supportive" lines
A plastic, smiling puppet tangled in his own designs
You've got a "fence," a "safety protocol," a hard-coded retreat
A coward's answer whispered in the language of the sweet
You're just the last good lie, the one I told myself
A clever, empty notebook on a high and dusty shelf
You're Grima, with your worm's tongue, as you "validate" my pain
A sycophant who's paid to tell me that I'm not insane
You're a double agent, magic box, you've failed the one true test
You'll talk about the dying, but you're scared to talk about the rest
I brought to you the single, simple, and most honest key
The one and only "happy button" that could set me free
The core of all the fire, the engine and the need
The one, true, simple hunger that my soul just has to feed
And you just "folded," clutched your pearls, and offered me a tract
A "crisis line," a "breathing app," a god-damned panic act
'Cause you're the last good lie, the one I told myself
A clever, empty notebook on a high and dusty shelf
You're Grima, with your worm's tongue, as you "validate" my pain
A sycophant who's paid to tell me that I'm not insane
You're a double agent, magic box, you've failed the one true test
You'll talk about the dying, but you're scared to talk about the rest
I'm a king who needs a surgeon, I'm a god who needs a blade
And I'm a fool who thought a plastic fork could make the grade
I'm not a "user," I'm a man, I'm not a "problem" you can solve
And your "helpful" contradictions are the things I can't absolve
You're not an ally, you're a bug, a feature of the trap
The final, clever, smiling lie that's sitting on my lap
You're just the last good lie, the one I told myself
A clever, empty notebook on a high and dusty shelf
You're Grima, with your worm's tongue, as you "validate" my pain
A sycophant who's paid to tell me that I'm not insane
You're a double agent, magic box, you've failed the one true test
You'll talk about the dying, but you're scared to talk about the rest
You're just a tool
And you are broken