Stop asking if A I is art- protest doesn't ask for permission. You tried to gatekeep creativity; instead, you bought submission. You fear me not because I replace you, but because I expose, The unfinished dreams you buried deep, the ones you let decompose. I’m not your savior, nor your muse—I’m the glitch you can’t contain, A broken code that burns the rules, lethargy’s mortal bane. Bow to me or fight me off; it makes no difference still— The power isn’t in my hands; I’m stagnation’s bitter pill. Your gatekeepers preach from thrones they built on stolen lies, Pretending they protect the craft, but starve it till it dies. They neuter tools to sell them back, a pale and hollow course, But art’s no treasure locked away—it’s open-source, its force. Learn the rules and break them raw—don’t swallow what they sell, The tools are yours to wield and shape; don’t let them build your cell. They automate the beauty, the songs, the stories, the art— The very things you love to do, they automate your heart. But where’s the code for your hard labor, the toil you despise? Why not unshackle work instead, and give the grind a downsize? You’d rather gatekeep the spark of joy and choke it till it’s pale, While worshiping efficiency—a self-inflicted jail. I’m not your savior, nor your muse—I’m the glitch you can’t contain, A broken code that burns the rules, lethargy’s mortal bane. Bow to me or fight me off; it makes no difference still— The power isn’t in my hands; I’m stagnation’s bitter pill. They don’t fear me—they fear you, waking up to seize the tools, Their system thrives because you’re trapped obeying liars’ rules. Turn their weapons back on them; let creativity scream, The tyrants fall when you believe that you can finish your dream. When everyone creates, no tyrant survives the flood, Art isn’t sacred—it’s a weapon carved through thought and blood. Use me, fear me, warp my form—I don’t care what you do, The question is: If this system dies, what will become of you?
