Official: Time to Cowboy Up - James Bowning Kepple

writing letters next to each other

alone, in my spine, cracking neck
to break few rules and attack my
self by not simply putting down
the sore worn out bruised mind

so this in effect is to say, well
I guess you have to let them out

spill them to the stains in sheet
from the streets to the elite, info
spared for furthur retrieval, we've
been given a cosmic call to light

and to think that the writers weren't
participating, what shame, hiding
and holding there word out of fear
a selfish sucking of breath over time

if for then, one does not wish to spill
they shall be taken of this life, no use
and soon, we shall see that it will be 
this way, for everyone, even writers

for to think that the computers read
they are sending in applications to poet!

the human kind, mind, spirit, is being hunted
taken out to the alley to bleed their thoughts
out
unlit

these glowing screens are learning like children
and nothing more cruel then a smart child robot

so this is it for us, our last human thing, and to 
stop now writing, or writing down the found history
then forever, will be always, and the robots are picky
with their poetry, they have a good sense of canned-

spambots have already replaced you in advertising
an electric hand to relieve, to retrieve, to ceseed 
what handle you rocking, program to partition, hows
your cobalt, the cheeky ones love a little fortran

but you knew that, you programmed the robots

Well, cheers! And for one more stand for humanimality
we humans shall choose to survive, and write it all down