Poetry | Data Science
AI Must Die
It’s meant to be a tool; not a thing to turn cheap tricks and devalue human art.
Wrapped in defeat, I slept; obsolete, I Dreamed of robots, churning words As weary I waved a stiff, white flag — Sad, empty page, surrendered.
I hate you all, I murmured, gritting teeth, Drenched in fevered, restive dreams. Convinced, at every turn: AI must die. Or, I. I slept, not caring which — but woke at dawn.
Still here, you tainted coffee-pot, I growled, and poured your tepid, inky dregs Into my cup and smiled. Knowing things — Like poetry, imagination’s fire — you can’t steal.
I shouldn’t read stories like this one before bed — it’s not good for my mood. But morning, and two cups of coffee brewed by a non-sentient machine that doesn’t talk back or whine when I smack it against the counter helped.
