Poetry | Data Science

AI Must Die

It’s meant to be a tool; not a thing to turn cheap tricks and devalue human art.

Photo by Franck V. on Unsplash

Wrapped in defeat, I slept; obsolete, I
Dreamed of robots, churning words
As weary I waved a stiff, white flag —
Sad, empty page, surrendered.

I hate you all, I murmured, gritting teeth,
Drenched in fevered, restive dreams.
Convinced, at every turn: AI must die. Or, I.
I slept, not caring which — but woke at dawn.

Still here, you tainted coffee-pot,
I growled, and poured your tepid, inky dregs
Into my cup and smiled. Knowing things —
Like poetry, imagination’s fire — you can’t steal.

I shouldn’t read stories like this one before bed — it’s not good for my mood. But morning, and two cups of coffee brewed by a non-sentient machine that doesn’t talk back or whine when I smack it against the counter helped.

This Story Was Completely Written By An AI