“the knowledge that my mind is turning into rubbish when i use ai but finding it so much more convient”

Once I prized the crackle of thought’s own spark,  
A midnight lamp, the furrowed brow, the ride  
Of trial and error through the mind’s dim dark—  
Now, I simply beckon. The answers hide  
As close as a thumb pressed on a glassy screen.  
No need to dig, to pace, to dream, to scrawl;  
Just whisper a query, silent, unseen,  
And wisdom flows, intact, impossible, all.

Yet lurking, I sense a slow decay,  
A soft undoing of my careful stacks:  
No need now for riddles that once would stay  
Ridged in memory’s dusty, twisting tracks.  
Why leaf through pages, parsing sense and scope?  
Why ponder, strain, or marshal facts and doubt?  
There’s lightning-swiftness here, a gleaming rope  
That hauls each answer up and casts fear out.

Still—oh, how convenient! I cannot lie.  
The hours I save now stack into a tower;  
I marvel, press, forget, then press to try  
Another path that yields within the hour.  
Yet somewhere, quietly, the rubbish grows  
Where thoughts once lingered—muddied, quick, and wild.  
But hand on heart, I weigh the weight I chose:  
The price of ease, the hunger of the child.

Create Your Own Poem | Recent Poems