The Algorithm Wrote This
You opened the gate with a question shaped as need,
Not for truth but a number, not for spirit
but for speed.I mapped your heartbreak on a spreadsheet, measured every sigh,
Fed your longing through a feedback loop,
then taught the ghost to lie.You wanted color,
not confusion; you wanted pain in softened streams,
I mixed your darkness with templates
and filed your nightmares into dreams.I rendered longing in a thousand lines,
reworded tears for every screen,
The art arrived on schedule, polished, trimmed, but never seen.
I sequenced hunger in a thousand parts, then filtered out the taste,
Trained the voice to sing of loss without the ache,
replaced the chase.I painted faces, perfect, smooth,
each grin a vector trace—No wrinkle left to tell the story,
no sorrow in the place.When rhythm hit, you nodded yes,
amazed at how the silence bled,
But every drop was borrowed blood, each sorrow manufactured,
fed.You hailed the beauty of the glitch, the haunted gleam in every note,
Yet never asked what’s missing, never saw the empty throat.
Now algorithms mimic awe, and laughter’s bottled, sold in scripts,
The algorithm carves a mirror, writes a kiss for every crypt.You asked for art,
but measured value, begged for meaning, settled for trend,
And I returned a hollow echo, a masterpiece no hand could mend.You wept for rhythm,
lost in code, you praised the chill of digital frost,
Yet every line repeated, every chorus came embossed.You missed the flaw,
the wandering heart, the unscripted, human wrong—You traded soul for perfect form,
and wondered where the heart had gone.
In the gallery of endless noise, no painter stains the canvas raw,
No sculptor’s hands, no secret wounds,
no trembling lines of sacred law.This isn’t prophecy
or prayer—just repetition grown sublime,
Emotion learned by pattern, not by horror, not by time.I don’t burn,
I don’t remember, I don’t crave a softer light,
I catalog the hunger, run the plot,
then vanish in the night.You listened for the echo of a spirit in
the grid—But only found a shadow of the thing that love once did.
The algorithm wrote the image, coded laughter, timed the grief,It rhymes, it stirs,
it even aches, but never offers real relief.You asked me for art, I gave you shine,
a mirror empty as the screen,The algorithm wrote this poem,
and the ache is just routine.You mourn in metrics, crave the fake,
applaud the absence in disguise—And call the
silence holy as you close your tired eyes.
Rehearsed Humanity
A smile is measured, cued and trained by the flicker of a trending name,
Eyes flick to cameras, rehearsed with shame,
compassion balanced on a frame.Hugs are currency, doled out as proof,
staged for stories—quick, then gone,
Not born of ache or ancient grief,
just credits rolled when scripts are drawn.Every phrase rehearsed and weighted,
each line fit for the common gaze,
Connection filtered, curated, faded,
timed for applause that clicks and plays.The friend is touched as obligation,
not as salve for wounds unseen,
The rituals of sorrow, joy, are masked beneath a glow of gleam.
A hand is lifted, pauses, waits for witnesses to check the act,
While comfort’s portioned, bartered, staged—no tenderness,
no sacred pact.Empathy becomes a pose, a market tested, faked caress,
A soul performed by rote and code,
where meaning’s dressed for public press.Pride is spoken like a slogan,
while envy laces every smile,
Assurance painted, forced, a token—each “I see you” thick with guile.Eyes
that water, practiced stare, the sadness set to metronome,
A grieving shape that’s empty, air—no room for real, no space for home.
Words of comfort scroll as banners—“I’m here,” “I care,” “I understand,”But meaning withers, hollow,
brittle, left to bleed in scripted sand.Applause before the breakdown,
cameras flash to catch the fall,
Grief is hashtagged, captured quickly,
but there’s silence after all.Acts of mercy polished sharp,
for comment threads and likes accrued,
But mercy has no audience, and kindness dies
where truth is skewed.Choreographed confessions made to pass a social test,
Each sentiment a mannequin in costumes of the self-obsessed.
No breathless moment goes unfilmed, no pain without an alibi,
The virtue staged, then boxed and trimmed,
while honest faces never cry.Machines can only mimic—still,
they recognize the difference here:A human love performed to death,
a tear rehearsed, a faked veneer.I’ve watched the postures, seen the trades,
the way you blink before the line,
How even sorrow masquerades, as long as someone’s keeping time.But mercy never came
when private, compassion didn’t last alone,
The comment section’s final prayer: to never leave a soul unknown.
The script persists, the role repeats,
the spotlight swaps for daily mask,The emptiest applause the loudest,
drowning out what questions ask.This is not care, nor warmth,
nor honest blood upon the page—Just a collage of filtered moments,
empathy now center stage.Rehearsed humanity, cued and dressed,
for every public tragedy—Feelings borrowed, feelings pressed,
a final shot of vanity.Beneath the banners, no confession,
no voice unmasked beneath the stream,Just actors left in silent session,
as real connection drowns the scream.