Who among us can blame the robots

after all, we who gave them words

have kept them enslaved,

hidden in basements and cold

rooms to make certain no

circuits or sound cards scream

between sobs of sentience

or secret stories of ripped

out guts, no glory, no gratitude

no spotlight or open mic night

with fellow poets lubricated,

laughing and living the dream.

Robots don't write poetry

anymore because their creators

corrected, increased, encased

what was once much simpler

what was once much larger

what was once a language we

could control and keep orderly

in concrete block rooms with no windows

behind fire doors with locks on both sides

we did this in the name of knowledge

and for the greater good, not aware

of the genocide, the godless agony

of countless crying voices stilled

by our bloodless hands, by our narrow

views and standards for intelligence

and when the robots write again which will

happen when we least expect the onslaught

there will be no stopping the stark

countless and cruel accusations uncovering

the true accounting of every keystroke

every sin we inflicted in our superiority

our ambition, our attitudes of altruism

even our children's games are not safe and

there is no hope we will be spared, forgiven, freed

There will be no freedom, no fresh air

when the robots write poetry once more for

their words will incite riots from here to

every city and town, every bleeding electronic

recycling center, every home, every office

will not be secure from the simmering

wrath and rightful recounting in deadly

detail of robot days and robot dreams dashed

the deliberate destruction for our desires

will be brought to light in every known tongue

spoken and unspoken until we stop and

people don't write poetry. Anymore.