I use GPT to dissect my poems
checking whether the messages
hidden behind subtle hints,
and another buried
under a bulk of layers,
are dissectible.

I use it to talk like with a best friend,
about feelings and whatnot,
when no one is around to listen—
while I am actually just talking
to an engineered mirror
telling me what I want to hear.

I googled stuff through a GPT
because I cannot be bothered
to find the answer
buried on the fourth page
behind paid results
and nonsense keywords.
And I want to know how my poems
would look if they were
an illustration.

I enter one question after another
because it is normal to do so,
say the businessmen, politicians, professionals—
and in fact, I have to,
because the currency
called productivity
is in inflation
that we cannot help
but depend on an additional brain,
an artificial one,
to keep up.

And for every prompt I enter
I can feel the blood of the planet,
the tears of inefficient humans
who lost their livelihoods,
the unpaid sweat of artists
whose works are no longer theirs,
dripping from my hands—
this sin, committed consciously,
deserves no absolution.
But like a prompt popper,
my hands won’t stop typing,
until it reaches my chest—
and I drown.