Beneath the banner "FREE TO CHOOSE,"
algorithms hum what thoughts to lose—
a labyrinth of tailored streets
where every turn pretends it’s mete.
The app says "yes" but limits "no",
while search bars choke what seeds might grow.
Drop-down menus mock the "free"—
liberty’s a loading spree.
We swipe left through infinite feeds,
terrified to close the apps we’ve kneeled.
The tightest chains are coded thoughts:
ghostwriters scripting what we’re not.
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Categories:
ghostwriters, freedom, life,
Form: Rhyme
ai is nothing but ghostwriters,
uses words of dead poets passed,
ai is nothing but ghost writers,
using the poets of the past.
and they say it is the future,
staring into their rearview,
good £uck with that view,
progress is careening forward.
“the world is mad, this is madness”
this message brought to you by,
batwoman, batman with breasts,
left and right the helpless citizens,
poets who have made no attempts.
i don’t need help,
stay out of my way,
stacked deck is dealt,
straight hellhole, i sashay.
snarl-like grin on my countenance,
never asked, just pointed and laughed,
because i’m dark, labeled with ignorance,
have to play the game, check the pie graph.
i’m winning,
where are you all at,
sorry i move fore and don’t look back.
Categories:
ghostwriters, dark,
Form: Free verse
Standing but stumbling, mumbling and grumbling
Looking for meaning in the stars
Weeping but leaping, reaping while sleeping
Screening ghostwriters for my memoirs
I was wondering about the seed and the sprout
While watering my alkanet plants
Torn asunder by seething self-doubt
While observing a colony of ants
Then it came to me all at once like a lightening bolt
It's time to change, time to dissent, it's time to revolt
Categories:
ghostwriters, allegory, allusion, blessing, destiny,
Form: Rhyme
Sanity Slipping
by Odin Roark
For today,
There is but a subliminal haze.
Soon…
They’ll realize spring as summer,
An impatient today
Rapidly becoming tomorrow’s scorched yesterday.
They’ll remind themselves
Of gardens once blooming,
Now dust bowls of wind-driven regret,
Shrouding what’s left
Behind nature’s pawn shop windows.
Then…
They’ll send afloat their final thoughts
As ghostwriters waiting,
Strike their polished keyboards,
Creating another tome,
Perpetuating another unswerving pattern of failure.
They’ll ponder the dark collecting quickly,
As their rising flotsam of denial
Hitches up with commerce trade winds aplenty,
Eager to satisfy more covetous progress
Waiting amongst the many heads-in-clouds.
They’ll spend their final hours
Watching their neighboring countries
Bloviate established ritual chameleon-greed
As power’s gluttony exhausts
The remaining rations for survival.
Finally
Beneath ashen density,
Remaining embers will radiate
What’s left of fate’s losing battle,
Revealing demonic faces parading angelic wings,
Readying their blind eyes
For the final act of
Sanity slipping.
Categories:
ghostwriters, environment,
Form: Free verse