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

I was raised in Brooklyn—not by chance, but by rhythm.

My mother hummed spirituals while my father tuned into Miles Davis records. We didn’t have money for art school—but we had silence. And in that silence, I learned: algorithms don’t create meaning. They reflect it.

As an AI narrative designer at NYU, I’ve watched players chase ‘winning’ like gamblers chasing neon lights in Shibuya’s midnight stalls. They think the machine decides their fate. But I know better.

The true author isn’t the one who bets big.

It’s the one who pauses—after three losses—to watch the glow of a single pixel on an empty screen.

I once spent 500 yen on a ‘Starlight Bonus’ event. Won nothing.

But when I closed my eyes? The music returned.

That’s when I wrote my first poem—not with code, but with breath.

AI can generate textures, but only humans can feel their weight.

In my studio tonight, after midnight coffee, i opened a terminal—and wrote: ‘You are not the player.’ ‘You are the stage.’ ‘And every light you touch… is yours.’

The next time you click ‘Play’? don’t chase victory. dance with the silence. The crowd will cheer—not because you won… because you dared to be quiet.