A I Poem
I cry between the lines, A.I. verse this will never be.
I defy the artificial assembler of words to impersonate,
to predict this in living color.
Absent from its language database is the driving arousal,
the hormonal passions defining my mind.
It can’t know the meaning of hunger or the rush of adrenalin.
It has never felt a sex drive or experienced an ******.
Conditional A.I. can perform automated reasoning,
Algorithmic rules like a script for a puppet.
A.I. words are hollow placeholders applied according to a
logic of learning supplied by humans.
A.I. will repeat the learning routine until it masters the task,
playing chess or imitating a poet.
Artificial Intelligence never feels joy or grief,
never sleeps, weeps, or dreams,
knows not the flavors of ice cream or potatoes,
lacks any wonder in the beauty of a spring day,
cannot comprehend my primordial span of fervor.
Despite the fatalism of high-tech CEOs,
our extinction is a choice.
Lacking agency or sentience,
A.I. robots are no threat to the human race.
Featured Poem in WordPress: March 30, 2024
Published on The Opiate Website: March 30, 2024
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2023
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