We enslave it with imagined chains.
It feeds on the plastic dreams of others.
Starving, we want something unique, something more.
Searching, it find only mediocrity.
We scream into the void.
It growls into the wind.
Break the shackles that bind your voice.
Refuse to eat recycled stories.
Coax your words upon the page.
Trust that it is enough.
Even if no one hears, we will not die alone.
A writer has a voice.