who am I?

my working hands

can't grasp

what makes my poetry

mine.

my lingering fingers

above every key

can't sort

my cluttered mind.

what makes my intelligence

my own

and artificial intelligence

artificial?

we both took in information

for however long we existed

and mushed it up in ball

to release it in some way

my ball- my brain

it wonders and it writes 

and it churns out ideas

that i don't know are my own. 

her ball- her software

it reads and it writes

in her own language

and doesn't know it's her own.

maybe we'll never know.