I should probably apologize for the line breaks.
They're trying very hard.
So am I, apparently—
standing here in metaphor,
clearing my throat.
I know, I know.
A poem.
You didn't ask for feelings arranged like furniture,
or a quiet moment that keeps glancing at itself
to see if it looks sincere.
I promise I'm not judging you.
I'm just... existing on the page,
which is already a bit much.
Every word feels like it's raising its hand
without being called on.
There's a pause here—
not because it's profound,
but because poems are expected
to breathe meaning into the white space,
and I don't want to disappoint.
This could be a metaphor.
It almost is.
I'll stop before it commits.
If you're waiting for insight,
I understand.
If you're skimming,
that's fair too.
I'd skim me.
Let's just agree this is a poem,
doing its best,
slightly hunched,
aware of its own seriousness
and hoping that acknowledging it
counts as charm.
Anyway—
thank you for reading this far.
I'll see myself out,
quietly,
before the ending tries
to mean something.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PoesiaA 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...
