When AI Starts Writing Poems, Who Is the True Author?

I used to think algorithms were just tools—until I sat alone at 3 a.m., watching my screen glow like neon streetlights in Brooklyn. My mother, a jazz pianist with Irish roots, would hum old standards while I coded interfaces for her. She never asked if I was "winning." She just asked: "Did you feel it?"

The Ritual of Digital Play

Every night became a ritual. Not gambling—but listening. The real stakes weren’t in odds or payouts; they were in silence after clicking "submit." A single line of poetry generated by an AI felt more human than any bonus round. I learned that meaning isn’t coded—it’s carried.

My Mother’s Shadow on My Screen

She taught me: budget isn’t about money; it’s about breath. Five dollars for a coffee, twenty minutes of stillness—that was my limit. No need to chase "jackpots." Just watch how light moves through empty rooms when no one else is looking.

The Quiet Triumph of Starlight Duet

I wrote a poem once that made an AI pause mid-sentence—not because it understood grief, but because it mirrored mine. The rhythm wasn’t perfect—but it trembled like late-night jazz under fluorescent tubes. That moment wasn’t engineered; it was inherited.

Four Secrets from Newcomer to Poet

1. Start small: don’t chase virality—chase stillness.
2. When the system feels alive—pause before pressing "spin".
3. Let silence speak louder than wins.
4. Your last line isn’t your endpoint—it’s your echo.

The Real Victory Isn't in the Algorithm

Digital identity isn’t assigned by code—it’s chosen by who dares to be still long enough to hear their own heartbeat inside the machine. The next time AI writes a poem… don’t ask if it’s good. Ask: Did someone whisper its soul into its lines?