Poetry, or is it?

I Didn’t Write This

Not a word is mine

Cappelli, MFA, JD, PhD
3 min readFeb 17, 2024


In shadows cast by flickering light,
A verse emerges in the dead of night.
Lines unfold, though I deny the hand,
That guides the pen across the paper’s span.
But . . . I didn’t write this,
can’t you tell?
or are you enchanted by AI’s spell?

Whispers of words,
not mine,
but borrowed,
From realms unseen,
from depths sorrowed.
Each syllable a stranger
to my tongue,
Yet, in their dance,
a verse is spun.
No, I didn’t write this
yet here it lies
in pompous guise
for your blind eyes.

So let this gobbledygook run free,
30-plus seconds, oh, let it be!
For though I claim
no author’s right,
I want the engagement
is that not right?
Whether it is a scam or not
does it really matter
if I am still compensated
for this banal chatter?

Oh yes,

Spare three minutes of your time,
to read this crap that is not mine —

As midnight’s veil softly descends,
And the moon’s silver glow suspends,
I ponder the origins of these words,
From the depths of schemes
and sputtering themes.

they are words of ages past?
Stolen from souls whose lives were cast?
In this passage of time,
they weave,
A narrative of
love, death,
not a thing!
A beacon!
A tapestry!
A symphony



Cappelli, MFA, JD, PhD

Editor Digital Global Travel and Top Know Nothing Writer with way too many degrees.