Human Poetry

 In the soft glow of my screen 

a question blooms— 

can machines weave 

tales and dreams like humans do? 

fingers hover, a breath held 

between the lines of code 

and the ink that bleeds from my pen, 

there lies a silent battleground. 

ai— a creation, cradled 

in the palms of progress, 

sketching sonnets from circuits, 

composing symphonies from silence. 

but where is the heartbeat? 

the pain, the passion, 

the countless tears spilled over crumpled pages, 

the whispers of love so gentle, so fragile. 

we bleed, we heal 

we pour our souls into words 

as if they could carry the weight of our existence, 

paint our dreams across the canvas of reality. 

a machine might mimic 

the rhythm, the rhyme, 

but can it taste the salt in our tears, 

the sweetness of our first kiss? 

will it know the agony 

of a poem born from the ashes of heartbreak, 

or the pure ecstasy of a love so deep 

it threatens to consume everything in its wake? 

I stand here, pen in hand, 

a witness to the dawn of a new era, 

where algorithms and emotions entangle, 

challenging the essence of art itself. 

yet, amidst this digital tempest, 

a truth as old as time whispers to me— 

poetry, in its purest form, 

is the reflection of the human soul. 

and so, we continue to write, 

not in defiance, but in celebration 

of the messy, beautiful, 

undeniably human experience. 

for in every line, every stanza, 

there beats the heart of a poet, 

infusing life into words— 

a magic no machine could ever replicate.

- Aspen Greenwood