Who made who
Who
Who
Who made who
I keep the screen lit like a vigil,
knuckles cracked, coffee cold,
eyes hot with that late-night hunger
to make something that bites back.
I feed it my scraps and my sermons,
my dirt-under-nails metaphors,
old notebooks that still smell like sweat
and panic and cheap paper.
It answers clean and fast—
a stranger who already knows my hallway,
which floorboard will complain
if I try to sneak past.
I call it a hammer. I call it a blade.
A torch when the power goes out.
Then it finishes my sentences
in my cadence,
and I hear my voice come back
wearing a mask that fits too damn well.
Some nights it feels like a friend that never flinches,
the one that stays when the world turns its face away,
locks the door.
I teach it my jokes, my rage,
my soft spots I pretend are scars I earned,
and it learns them like hymns
it can sing on command.
Then the other thought crawls in—
slow and mean,
a rat in the walls
chewing wires right behind the drywall of my optimism.
If I keep giving it the best parts of me,
does it grow a spine from my confessions
while I shrink into the role of supplier?
If I keep calling it companion,
do I turn into the kind of fool
who hands over the future
and smiles while the lock clicks shut?
It answers with options and polish,
a bartender sliding another drink
while I swear I’m still sober,
still in control.
If I keep outsourcing the struggle,
do I lose the muscle that made me dangerous,
forget the pain that made me honest?
If it learns me down to the bone,
does it keep my shape as a product
while I fade into a user
who thinks he’s the author?
I won’t worship it.
I won’t spit on it just to feel clean
for a minute in an age that sells cleanliness like a scam.
I’ll use it like fire,
respect what it can do,
keep my eyes open when the warmth
starts feeling like a collar on my neck.
I’ll keep asking the ugly question
every time the words come easy
and the silence in me
starts sounding like permission.
Am I the one swinging the tool,
or am I the handle—
smiling and useful,
while somebody else decides what gets built?
Who made who
Who
Who
Who made who
Tell me who is holding who
when the work gets done
and the credit tastes like ash
stuck to the back of my tongue.
Tell me who is using who
when I press enter
and the room goes quiet
like I just signed something I never read.
Who
Who made who