On a whim...

My fingers are reluctant...
reticent even...
to the point of no reveal;
My thoughts are slightly bent...
crooked even...
to the point that I would steal;
a word or a phrase, a sentence or three
stanza to verses not written by me...
what kind of a writer...what kind would I be
if I didn't add a verse written by ChatGPT?

My mind is a labyrinth...
maze-like even...
with twists and turns that never end;
My words are a jumble...
chaotic even...
with meanings that I can not comprehend;
But in the midst of this disarray,
I find solace in what I write and say,
For every verse that I create,
Is a piece of me that I liberate...