Borrowed Truth, Unbuilt Work

You type the soul into a prompt, call the output truth.

War struggle, you never lived, called it paying dues. Borrowed voices,

polished pain, prefab tears on cue. Then asked the world for flowers

like it owed 'em to you. Talents loud in quiet rooms, it cracks before

it shines. Yours arrives already framed, spell-checked, pre-designed.

You don't break, you don't bleed, you just optimize. Mistaking borrowed life for something you

could ignite. You think disbelief is envy, fake doubt means they're blind.

But silence isn't hatred, it's a verdict with time. Craft is hours