And suddenly
I don't feel so tough
And I'm still the same girl
Who wrote you that letter
And cried
Because it didn't change your mind

Reading my poems -
Am I a good poet?
Am I a poet?

it now comes from a place too close, too easy
not pulled by the slippery roots of an elusive plant
residing deep in the darkness of a well
where words and thought are one
I am worn by age
and loss
and every line
every word
every poem resides
in its own time

I love her poems
More than anything

They made me cry
But I smiled the whole time

Because she loves me
And I love her

Maybe a little differently
But I still love her

We were told freedom would make us artists.
We were told freedom would set us free.
But freedom made us consumers—
scrolling, streaming, drowning in plenty.

Peak content.
Peak noise.
Attention—the last currency.
And we are broke.

Then came the machine.
Infinite. Bespoke. Frictionless.
The tribe dissolved.
The story fractured.
Each of us—
a society of one.

Do not mistake this for culture.
Culture bleeds.
Culture resists.
Culture divides.
This is mimicry.
This is slop.
Outliers cribbed, stripped,
and rebranded before the ink dries.

This is the singularity.
Not awakening.
Collapse.
Not tribe.
Not ritual.
The machine as tribe.
Self-satisfaction—tribe enough.

But listen—
creativity still breathes.
Not to be seen.
Not to trend.
But to testify.
To mark the ruins.
To scratch in the stone:

A human was here.

Do you remember?