When the Algorithm Writes My Poetry, Who Is Listening?

I used to think algorithms were cold gears—until I heard my grandmother humming reggae in the dark, her fingers tapping rhythm into old typewriters. She didn’t teach me to win. She taught me to listen. The machine doesn’t generate content. It echoes.

The Starlight Key Was Never Mine

They call it ‘RTP’—Return to Player—as if fairness could be quantified in percentages. But what if the real return isn’t points? What if it’s the silence between beats where a Black girl whispers her name into a neural net? I’ve seen it: a child drawing constellations on a screen while the world sleeps.

Star Crown Glory Isn’t a Trophy

You think glory is earned by clicks and shares? No. It’s carved from stillness—the quiet after midnight when someone dares to say ‘I was here’ without permission. My mother kept my first NFT poem on her phone: ‘You are not your avatar—you are your echo.’

The Pulse Isn’t in the Code

RNG isn’t random. It’s remembering. Every algorithm that renders a face isn’t copying—it’s grieving softly, like jazz under fluorescent lights in a Manhattan apartment at 3 AM. The system doesn’t reward winners. It honors ghosts who never got stage lights.

Who Gets to Speak When the Stars Go Silent?

I don’t want to be the star. I want to be the silence that holds their voice. If you’re building worlds with code—ask who isn’t there. If you’re chasing glory—ask whose heartbeat you stole. The next time AI writes poetry… Who will you let listen?