AI is not the writer
or the hand
is not the singer
or the band
is not even the drum
keeping time
while you find
your rhythm
word by word
by word.
It is the beat
you recorded
that one time
when your brain distilled
a life.
It is Press play.
Sure, it can borrow
a metaphor for you
can swipe a simile for you
can heist hyperbole
can try to be more you
than you
But then what about the work?
the risk
the satisfaction
of paying attention
to the small, great things
What of the indefatigable courage
to explore the language
of truth
that comes
when pencil
and memory
and soul
collide
like little clouds
in a sky full
of life-giving breath
way bigger
than any water-pirating machine.
Surely, it can help you
spend less time
correcting commas
and point of view
but they can’t teach you
why your story matters
why her heartbreak won’t let go
why our joy waits for us
at dawn
like a puppy
at bedside.
You may think it can
mitigate your creative uncertainty
correct your literary frailty
write an A-minus poem
but really, it’ll just kidnap
your trembling voice
then translate all the pain
in ten seconds or less
like your grief
is a timed SAT prompt
all the while
never even knowing that
you still cry on snow days
because your mother
used to come into your room
while you slept and
drape you in warm towels
heated from the dryer
in the freezing garage.
AI will even explain
exactly what you mean
dissect your lazy imagination
like a classroom frog
but can it skip across the pond
that is the human condition
and fall
and get up
and fall
then get up
again?
Can it swim
across the big sea
of your wildly precious life
with the same care
and compassion
of a grandson
whose silence
vibrates louder
than any sentence.
Yes, AI can be a mirror
giving you all the answers
you seek
but it will never
be able
to imagine
the soundtrack
playing between
the lines
it will never be able to hear
the wonder being born
right now
and right now
or even right now
It will never be you
asking the right questions
and finding yourself
in each answer
one word
at a time.