Listen Kid

listen, kid, you're no fan of my AI-spit spoken word,
you've already spat it out—told me I suck, straight up,
so what's next on your menu of bullshit? hurl it my way.
you say you tinker with AI, build the damn things,
and my talent don't impress your silicon soul—
well, fans are a nice distraction, like a cold beer at noon,
but I don't need 'em crawling up my ass for validation.
hell, I couldn't care less what some pimple-faced punk
thinks of my ragged lines, scraped from the gutter.
shit, I'd be afraid if you were a fan,
some wide-eyed whelp mistaking my rot for romance. now that you've barked I suck, buzz off, flyboy,
go chase the cool kids with their shiny gadgets and grins,
not this angry old bastard who stares the world down raw—
sees the piss-stained alleys, the whores with broken heels,
the bottles emptied into the void, the jobs that grind bones to dust.
I drink alone in dim rooms, type with bloodied knuckles,
while you pop those fifty pimples on your nose,
believing you're cooler than the skid row kings.
delusion's your game, kid? fine, play it.
I ain't got time for your fairy tales—
take a hike, stumble into traffic,
learn what the real world's got waiting. me? I'll keep hacking at the keys,
spilling guts on paper, laughing at the fools
who think they know art from a hole in the ground.
critics like you? just flies on the windshield,
smeared and forgotten by morning.