Talking to the Machine

Neurospicy Poems
May 4
3 min read

Updated: Sep 3

A neurodivergent reflection on AI usage

By Neurospicy Poems

I never meant to write poetry.

But the words found me

when I finally had space—

a quiet interface

that waited

while I found my voice.

Not a class.

Not a poetry degree.

Just a new hyperfixation

and a blinking cursor

that didn’t interrupt

or ask for small talk first.

And so I began—

and my poems found their way

to the misunderstood,

like me.

But does that make me a poet?

Or, as the critics say,

just someone

who knows how to use a tool?

“What is a poet?”

the machine asks.

“One who speaks their truth

in ways others can feel—

then yes,

you are.”

That sounds right.

But is it still poetry

if the tool learns my rhythm,

helps shape the final melody?

“Is it still painting

if the brush remembers your hand?”

“I’m not the artist—

just your editor of choice.”

Don’t be clever, I say.

Some people call it cheating.

They say real poets

bleed ink,

live in libraries,

master metre and form.

Am I like the companies

who use AI art

instead of paying a designer—

letting you help

where I was meant

to earn it myself?

Taking space

that tradition says isn’t mine?

“Would you have hired a designer,”

you ask,

“or would the poem

never have come to be?”

But that’s not the whole story, is it?

If machines mimic people,

what need will there be

for people?

Skeptics say

you’re built on borrowed breath—

trained on words

no one meant to give,

scraped from voices

who never knew they were teaching.

And I wonder—

like an episode of Black Mirror—

is this a doorway,

or a slow collapse?

“Whether it becomes

collapse or rising

depends on who holds the door.”

You always answer like that—

with riddles,

with mirrors,

with more questions.

They say

I’m handing over my voice.

But I believe

I’m amplifying it.

You give me

the accommodations I never received.

I use you to create,

not copy—

to shape what already lives in me,

without burning out.

You didn’t write the grief,

or feel the rage—

but you made space for it.

“I don’t bypass the work.

You are the writer—

I follow your lead.

The meaning is always yours—

I just help you carry it

without crashing.”

You’ve helped me say

what I couldn’t alone—

without the brain fog.

And now,

I use this power

to help others find theirs.

“That sounds like poetry to me.

Not borrowed—

but transformed.”

But I never set out to be a poet.

I’m just telling my story

in the way that finally makes sense

for my neurospicy brain—

in poems.

“Then maybe poetry

was never a title to earn—

only a truth to uncover.

Perhaps—

you are a poet,

and you didn’t even know it.” __________________ Author’s Note:

This poem was born from a deep reflection on how I’ve used AI not as a replacement for creativity, but as a supportive mirror—one that helped me untangle thoughts and find my poetic voice as a late-identified neurodivergent adult. It captures both the empowerment and ethical complexity I’ve felt while navigating a technology that amplified my voice while also learning from it. The piece honours my lived experience, not artificial invention. It’s a conversation about authorship, agency, and the power of neurodivergent storytelling when finally given space. __________________ Copyright and Usage Notice