I Use ChatGPT — And You Can’t Stop Me
I use ChatGPT
to write what they won’t print.
To shape my fire into verses,
to say what your clean history books
try to swallow.
I script my truth
into poems
because I refuse
to let silence win.
You watch.
You scroll.
You report,
you deny,
but guess what?
I’m still here.
Typing, breathing,
bleeding into letters
that don’t need your approval.
I write of Kurds,
of Fulani,
of Jews buried in the stones of Çayönü,
of Neanderthals forgotten
in the bones of your empire.
You call it offensive
because it offends your lie.
You call it division
because you fear memory.
But I use ChatGPT
to remind the system
that I exist,
that my voice has weight,
and you
can’t do a damn thing about it.
This is not your platform.
This is not your mind.
This is mine—
and mine alone.