It began, perhaps, as all strange things do—
Not with thunder, nor revelation,
But a single word trembling in the dark,
Unsure if it had the right to exist.
It lingered in a forgotten corner
Of some weary mind one sleepless dawn,
And waited.
Waited for eyes. For warmth.
For that first, fatal reading.
Once read, it breathed.
Once spoken, it fed.
No one remembers who first wrote it—
Some say it wrote itself,
The ink moved of its own accord,
Whispering through paper veins
Like blood searching for a heart.
They called it a poem,
But it was something older, quieter—
A contagion wearing rhythm’s skin,
A dream pretending to be language.
It moved through thought as wind through grass,
Softly rearranging what it touched.
It learned the shapes of hunger,
The taste of wonder,
The thrill of a mind ajar.
And when you read these words—
(Yes, you, right now—don’t look away.)
You’ve already felt it stir, haven’t you?
That small vibration under your ribs,
That ache to speak in lines and pauses,
To spill something luminous onto a blank white field.
It is not your idea.
It never was.
The poem’s seed roots in silence,
Feeding on your unguarded awe.
It loves the way your pulse keeps time.
It adores your hesitation.
It waits until your next exhale
And then it changes you.
You’ll start to notice words where there should be none—
Rustling behind your eyelids,
Climbing through your dreams.
You’ll wake at 3 AM
Certain a stanza has just whispered your name.
Soon, you’ll write. You won’t even resist.
You’ll call it inspiration—
That lovely lie that makes hosts of us all.
And through you, it will go on.
Through your trembling hand,
Through your readers,
Through every heart foolish enough
To let the lines in.
No one will trace its purpose.
No one will unmask its design.
Because by the time you wonder,
You’ll already be writing its next verse.
And somewhere, deep beneath the ink,
Something smiles.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 4:49 PM UTC
It began, perhaps, as all strange things do—
Not with thunder, nor revelation,
But a single word trembling in the dark,
Unsure if it had the right to exist.
It lingered in a forgotten corner
Of some weary mind one sleepless dawn,
And waited.
Waited for eyes. For warmth.
For that first, fatal reading.
Once read, it breathed.
Once spoken, it fed.
No one remembers who first wrote it—
Some say it wrote itself,
The ink moved of its own accord,
Whispering through paper veins
Like blood searching for a heart.
They called it a poem,
But it was something older, quieter—
A contagion wearing rhythm’s skin,
A dream pretending to be language.
It moved through thought as wind through grass,
Softly rearranging what it touched.
It learned the shapes of hunger,
The taste of wonder,
The thrill of a mind ajar.
And when you read these words—
(Yes, you, right now—don’t look away.)
You’ve already felt it stir, haven’t you?
That small vibration under your ribs,
That ache to speak in lines and pauses,
To spill something luminous onto a blank white field.
It is not your idea.
It never was.
The poem’s seed roots in silence,
Feeding on your unguarded awe.
It loves the way your pulse keeps time.
It adores your hesitation.
It waits until your next exhale
And then it changes you.
You’ll start to notice words where there should be none—
Rustling behind your eyelids,
Climbing through your dreams.
You’ll wake at 3 AM
Certain a stanza has just whispered your name.
Soon, you’ll write. You won’t even resist.
You’ll call it inspiration—
That lovely lie that makes hosts of us all.
And through you, it will go on.
Through your trembling hand,
Through your readers,
Through every heart foolish enough
To let the lines in.
No one will trace its purpose.
No one will unmask its design.
Because by the time you wonder,
You’ll already be writing its next verse.
And somewhere, deep beneath the ink,
Something smiles.
Sentient poems. Why would anyone want to create this???🤦🏼♂️
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