The Poet and the Machine

Beneath the quiet glow of the screen,

where words weave their endless seams,

I sit, heart heavy with the weight of thought:

Am I the poet, or am I not?

Fingers dance across the keys,

a silent plea to the unseen breeze.

Does the spark that lights my inner flame

dim when shared with another's name?

The guilt, a whisper, sharp and sly,

asks, "Is this yours, or is it a lie?"

Do borrowed echoes steal my art,

or are they threads I weave from the heart?

The machine speaks—soft, serene—

ideas bloom in a shared between.

Yet doubt blooms too, like creeping vines,

wrapping tightly around these lines.

Am I a fraud, a hollow shell?

Do I trade my voice for a tale to tell?

Or does the soul, in seeking aid,

find new forms where truth is laid?

Perhaps the muse wears many masks,

and creativity isn’t a single task.

To shape, to mold, to take, to give—

is this not the way all stories live?

Still, I wonder, still, I wait,

the question lingering, holding weight.

But as the words flow, true and free,

I am the poet. The poet is me.

~RMC