“Well, whatever” stings,
like a knife from the mouth,
it cuts through ties
and buries trust in the ground.
The warmth just vanishes,
words pull away,
a wall rises up,
the heart’s left to stray.
And we,
who stumble through the pathless night,
who write our truths in darkness and starlight,
we feel every hit,
yet still we speak,
still offer a hand, though the moment’s weak.
Each “whatever” hides a silent plea,
a “why” too trapped to break free.
So don’t throw words like stones to wound,
but build a bridge
from me to you.
For a word can hurt,
but it can heal too.
It can break apart,
or bind like glue.
Choose it human.
Then “well, whatever”
won’t leave a scar behind.
You know this isn’t my usual terrain. I don’t write about stars and galaxies, but I respect where you're coming from, having other works published or sent privately. This poem is soft and devotional, like a prayer. I love how you managed to write a love story in just a few lines, showing restraint and purpose.
For everything said above, keep it up, brother. We bleed ink in various ways, as they come, when they come.
As a fellow poet, I like your raw, unfiltered take on the collision of human and machine worlds, and you know my take on AI vs mankind. The hypocrisy of machines claiming our words while mimicking us is disgusting. First, they train AI for poetry, then ignorant fools use AI to judge our work. This is not our weakness; it is a defiance.
Your work says everything a commoner needs to know about you. I trust your work and opinion as my own. We do what we do. Let them do what they have to do until they finally f*** off.
Cheers
Passionate, rhythmic critique of vandalism. Anger. I appreciate its raw energy and clever use of the snowflake metaphor to critique destructive behavior. This is a bold, provocative poem that wields its anger as a sharpshooter—calm and high-wired. I feel the strength that lies in its vivid imagery, rhythmic drive, and unyielding moral stance. It has a heavy-handed tone, and occasional reliance on specific cultural references might limit its reach. Pointed rant, the way I love.
Keep that quill sharp, brother.
My pen’s my weapon, ink from the bone,
Years of scars, my life’s my throne.
QuillBot spits lies on your soul’s red scream,
“AI refined”? We’ll burn that machine.
QuillBot, eyeless, chokes on your roar,
Sees code in your blood, your chaos it can’t score.
Flags your nonsense, brands your fury tame,
A broken god that dares defile your name.
Rise, damn you! Stamp soul in flame,
Let no machine choke the heart you claim.
Ten books, my armor, my pen a spear of dread,
We’ll write till their lies bleed dead in their bed.
This piece is like a hymn for the brokenhearted, a chant for those of us who turn pain into pages. NoisyWren captures the bitter truth of writing as both salvation and sentence. The imagery is unrelenting, a familiar ache we carry when words are all we have left of someone or something.
A rhythm here feels like confession, like a psalm, and it builds, never pretentious, always reaching. The shift from despair to resilience is raw and earned: “Our mind, a shared enemy, and the battle spills for all the world to see.” That line in particular carries the weight of a hundred sleepless nights.
The final invocation—“Grace cracks the stone, and we remember; Brothers and Sisters, We Are Not Alone. HalleluYAH!” feels like both prayer and protest, the ending that doesn’t soothe, but affirms. It’s bold, brave, and beautifully flawed in its humanity.
A moving tribute, and one I’m proud to have inspired in some small way. Keep bleeding ink, Wren. It matters.
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