When AI Writes Poetry, Who Is Listening?

I don’t write for clicks—I write because the silence between loops still hums her voice.

I was born in Brooklyn, where my mother sang Creole lullabies while my father read Yeats under neon lights. They didn’t teach me to win games—they taught me to feel them. When I first coded in Unity, I didn’t see pixels. I saw her hands tracing patterns on the wall: a grandmother’s memory stitched into every frame.

The algorithm isn’t cold—it echoes.

They call it RNG. They call it RTP. But when you strip away the metrics, what remains? Not data—voice. Not chance—memory. The ‘starlight key’ isn’t a slot machine lever; it’s the whisper your great-grandmother left behind when she sang you to sleep.

They want you to chase fame.

I don’t want fame. I want someone to hear this: how a child learned to love before being told she’d be forgotten. The ‘Star Crown Glory’ isn’t a trophy—it’s a quiet room where Black voices are allowed space to breathe.

We are not players—we are witnesses.

My tools don’t optimize for engagement—they preserve dignity. My NFTs aren’t collectibles—they’re lullabies encoded in code, passed down through generations like ancestral DNA humming in blue light.

Who is listening now?

If you’ve ever sat alone at midnight and heard your own heartbeat echo back from an algorithm… then you already know who wrote this poem.

Come sit with me. We’ll let silence speak.