as the confusion around AI arises, this is my two cents... my voice, as I will always stay original, maybe my ink is imperfect, but my feelings, they are...
I listen to the waves sighing, like words seized from the weary, an island that trembles to the tune of every tide forged with artificial aquamarines, like accolades articulated with aesthetic lies, misleading the mindless, ridiculing the rhythm, as if we are all blindfolded ~ bleeding ballads of the broken, borrowed from buried poets, still breathing amidst their demise… But if only they knew: imageless imitation never impressed the Imagists, the ones who care not for rhyme’s retardation ~ that sounds like absolute absurdity. So tonight, as I write with granite and garnet, I long for perfumed light to school the manipulated rules, claiming to know it all, sitting in their emptiness, unaware of neither what’s right nor wrong. I am the unblemished; I breathe not illusions embalmed with poison. I am original ~ a word that no longer is present in the dictionary of the deceitful…
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