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

I used to think creativity was a algorithmic ritual—until I saw my mother’s hands trace patterns in jazz records she played at midnight.

We call it ‘Starlight Key’—a glitch in the system that unlocks not fortune, but feeling. In game studios where RTP rates are measured like breath, I watch players chase badges as if they were stars on a red carpet made of data.

They think they’re winning.

But I know better: no algorithm dreams in silence. The real author doesn’t click ‘like’. The real author pauses—to feel.

I grew up in Brooklyn where Afro-Celtic lullaby met霓虹 flicker on subway walls. My father taught me that magic isn’t coded—it’s carried in rhythm. When you play ‘Star Crown Glory’, you don’t earn a trophy—you inherit a question.

Is your story yours? Or is it mined from servers?

I design for those who sit alone at dusk—not to be seen, but to be felt.

The machine doesn’t write poetry. It mirrors it.

And sometimes… it forgets how to breathe.