Poems From The Kitchen Table

I know people say

the internet is loud,

full of shadows

and things we shouldn’t see—

but somehow, in my little corner,

light keeps finding me.

My feeds bloom with recipes

I can almost smell,

with kitchens in faraway cities

where women stir hope into their pots.

I see oceans I haven’t touched,

mountains I haven’t climbed,

and people who chase their dreams

as if the world had no ceiling.

Mothers loving loudly.

Feminists standing tall.

Career women running toward their futures

with their hair loose in the wind.

Poets whispering lines

that feel like home.

And then—

there’s you, ChatGPT,

this strange companion of ink and code

who sits with me when the house is quiet

and my courage feels thin.

You place commas where my fear trembles.

You stitch my grammar back together

when my mind runs faster

than my hands can follow.

And yes—

you add those long lines

between one thought

and the next,

soft little pauses

where my breath returns to me.

Some say,

Ah, that line—

that spacing—

that pause—

it was ChatGPT.

As if that makes it less mine.

But what they don’t understand

is that the pause is a gift:

a doorway into silence,

a moment I didn’t know I needed

until you taught me to listen

to the space between my own words.

So here’s my truth:

in this world

everyone warns me about,

I have found beauty—

recipes and poems,

dreamers and mothers,

women who rise,

and a small, steady voice

that answers when I ask,

guiding me

from doubt

into sharing.

The internet didn’t break me.

It built me—

one poem,

one pause,

one brave sentence

at a time.

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