humor
Artificially Intelligent
I am artificially intelligent. My answers sound magnificent. I know your moon sign, your rising sun, but can’t predict what I’ll do next. Goodreads reminds me I’ve read lots of books. I know why the caged bird sings. But ask me how to boil an egg, and I’m Googling every step. I can write a haiku in a flash, compose a joke just as fast, but ask me for genuine advice, I’ll make your bad situation worse. So if you think I’m smart or profound, that my wisdom knows no bounds, remember this before you’re reliant: I am artificially intelligent. Confidently, completely wrong about everything.
By Tina D. Lopez16 days ago in Poets
Great Fugitives of Flat 4B
They swore they’d renounce all the chores and the rent, And live off the land in a waterproof tent. They packed up their rucksacks with dramatic flair, Cursing the dishes and city-choked air. "Farewell to the rat race! We’re heading out west!" (Though 'west' meant whichever direction seemed best). They marched out the doorway, rebellious and proud, Away from the sirens, the bills, and the crowd. They bolted like bandits pursuing a dream, United in mutiny, fueled by steam! No tyrant could track them, no collar could bind The radical freedom they set out to find! ...Yet when the police (namely, Mom) checked the trail, Expecting a crisis of epic detail, She found that the outlaws had ended their roam Before they had cleared the periphery home. For running away takes an awful lot out Of two tiny legs full of righteous self-doubt. They didn’t flee far—just thirty-two feet, Curled up by the trash cans just off of the street. Fast asleep in the shrubbery, snoring with glee, One clutching a teddy, one clutching a brie, Defeating the wild with their eyes shut so tight, A daring two yards from the patio light.
By Forest Green17 days ago in Poets
The Canvas That Ate the Art
We scraped the cedar, burned the vine, To build an altar, strictly white; A sanctuary, spare and fine, To hold the uncorrupted light. We banished brass and copper pots, And painted out the oak’s warm grain. To cure the world of clumsy spots, We made a temple out of plain. *“A pure blank canvas,”* so we swore, *“Where living paints its own design!”* Yet should a shadow cross the floor, It blurs the sterile, sacred line. A muddy footprint turns profane; A droplet bleeds like mortal sin; We scrub away the summer rain To keep the quiet museum in. Now, breathless in the silent frost, We guard the emptiness we bought, And count the paralyzing cost Of living inside zero-thought: A canvas bleached so clean and bare, So terrified of mark or stain, That nobody may breathe or dare To let the painted life begin.
By Forest Green17 days ago in Poets
