by Daniel Malabet and Alexis Penalver
Years ago, I was fascinated by the unique melodies strewn together by keys on a piano,
Or the rhythms of a gait that reminded me of songs.
Pages upon pages of fantastical stories,
Overflowed my mind with thought.
This predicament has since been lost on me.
As the years have passed, and technology progressed,
My creativity gradually regressed.
Production, creation, and individuality is an ancient art,
Lost at the hands of an artificial dawn.
Jobs known for their human touch,
Baristas, cashiers, drivers and such,
Have been overrun.
Lost at the hands of an artificial dawn.
Originality of music, schoolwork, and artistic expression,
Have now become nothing,
But an impression.
Lost at the hands of an artificial dawn.
Can you tangibly prove that these words,
Scattered on this page,
Are not the product of this artificial age?
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