They put my life up on the chain,
each hour minted, stamped, and named,
my attention, a coin to trade,
my future, on a ledger laid.
My childhood sold as fractional shares,
my sleepless nights in bull-run prayers,
my smile a limited drop, rare,
floor price falling, no one there.
I stake my days for yield, they say,
then watch the gas fees eat my pay.
My name's a wallet, hash, and key,
no one to ask who I might be.
A DAO votes on how I live,
what I may take, what I may give.
My heart's a smart contract, signed in haste,
with no refund clause, no time to waste.
They wrapped my soul, then bridged it twice,
and lost a decimal in the price.
Now I'm a meme, a pump, a dump,
a rug pull in a human lump.
But when the market's final crash
turns every token into ash,
you can't burn what was never sold:
the warmth in hands that you can hold.
So hodl me not, nor trade, nor mint,
I'm not a number, not a hint.
Unlisted, off the chain, I'm free,
no ticker symbol. Just me.
End
Subject: This poetry explored a future where humans have been tokenized. It's beautiful and haunting idea generated by interactions between the poet and machines.
Good Day