When AI Starts Writing Poetry, Who Is the Real Author?

I used to think creativity was something you bought at a digital kiosk—tap ‘play,’ wait for the glow. But then I realized: no algorithm writes poetry. Not even the most elegant model can feel the silence between notes.

The Neon Night Was My Professor

In Tokyo’s neon alleys, I chased wins like rhythm—not odds. My mother, half Nigerian, half Irish, taught me that beauty isn’t engineered. It’s whispered in pauses. When I lost three rounds in a row? That wasn’t failure. It was listening.

The Budget Was a Lullaby

I set my daily limit: one cup of matcha, twenty minutes under Tokyo Tower. Not to win big—but to feel the pulse beneath the screen. The machine doesn’t dream for you; it mirrors your doubt back as light.

The Game Isn’t in the Spin—It’s in the Stillness

Every time I clicked ‘bet,’ I heard jazz rising from street corners where my grandmother danced with vinyl records on loop. That’s when I knew: this isn’t gaming. It’s communion.

You Are Not Player—you Are Poet

They call it ‘gamification.’ I call it ‘soul-coding.’ The real author isn’t trained in neural nets—they’re quiet after midnight, watching stars through glass windows while their mother sleeps upstairs.