A machine in training
If you judge it AI-written,
that ache is yours, not mine.
I need no borrowed wisdom—
I craft my own masterpieces.
Your indulgence cannot impugn my intelligence;
my poems shine with brilliance.
Think like a machine if you want to—
I care less.
The machine itself bows to my wisdom,
knowing I am what it is not.
Without programming,
I write beyond its best.
Next time you call my poem machine-made,
know this: you too are programmed,
unable to discern the spark
of human intelligence
from artificial mimicry.
You are, more or less,
a machine in training.
Use not your filthy mouth to brand my poem as garbage;
rather, it is you who must cleanse your brain
of the trash you let deceive you.
Like a pig, you cannot escape your stench;
even when washed clean,
the reek remains ingrained.
And you will always return
to wallow in the filth
of your artificiality.
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