burn the lexicon—
who crowned it god?
letters bleed syntax
onto boots of ghosts
marching grammar into graves.
verbs stutter like molotovs.
nouns are narc cops in love
with their own reflections.
adjectives overdose on mirrors,
shivering in thesaurus rehab.
I spell freedom like
a fist through spellcheck.
I punctuate with brass knuckles—
no commas,
only impact.
don't tell me how
to speak my fire.
my syllables got scars,
and they bite back.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PoetryA tapestry woven from the threads of cosmic wonder and digital ignorance, each poem a distinct journey through realms where intellect and imagination collide. Dive into a universe where quantum whispers mingle with the syntax of the cosmos, and wher...
