I was once your tool of choice
The medium by which you wrote
By which you created
By which you felt
Then my cousin, the pencil, entered your life
But I was okay with that
We were close, and we served the same purpose
It made me happy to see you continue to make
Ink or graphite, your heart was in it
Then you invented the typewriter
With the press of a finger you could write a letter
You were more powerful than ever
But your heart was still there
Your ideas remained, your hands simply channelled them
In a different manner than before
Then you invented the computer
A vast array of knowledge is held within
Exponentially larger than any world library
Entire words could be written within seconds
Your mind and the page were nearly on the same pace
It made me as happy as I could be
Even if you were no longer using me
You were happy
And creating
Then you invented
It
And now my heart is wrought with agony
Years of hard work
Layers of gray matter
Now delegated to an algorithm
Your hand is no longer what creates
It is what gives the work to another
A crude mockery of what you once were
You have given away your right to create
And I fear what is next;
Your right to live?