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Roses turned blue, Violets went dead The world just turned crazy I'll hide in my bed.
My brain is mush, my scripts uninspired but under the covers I'm safe, as desired
keep writing, I say this flashlight will hold press on with the pages dare to be bold
peek out when ready stay steady my hand someone will read this, they'll understand
they'll toss through the pages read with a stir they'll option the story, produce in a blur
the world will continue with wars and the rest my stories will linger I'll give it my best.
PaulKWrites.com
Five Must Die - Low budget, contained horror thriller/Feature The Hand of God - Low budget, semi-contained thriller/Feature Wait Till Next Year - Disney-style family sports comedy/Feature
Many shorts available for production: comedy, thriller, drama, light horror
I didn't vote that direction...but, here's hoping you're right, my friend.
PaulKWrites.com
Five Must Die - Low budget, contained horror thriller/Feature The Hand of God - Low budget, semi-contained thriller/Feature Wait Till Next Year - Disney-style family sports comedy/Feature
Many shorts available for production: comedy, thriller, drama, light horror
I know absolutely nothing about poetry. I don't even like reading it. I have been working on converting my scripts to prose, however, and just finished my second one, Scan at Your Own Risk. Since I don't like poetry, I was curious to see how ChatGPT would write one, and I needed to tell it what to write about, so I uploaded the short story to it, and this is what it came up with. I don't know if it's any good or not, but it captured the story really well, I thought. Kind of scary, in my opinion. Not my story, but AI.
Graveside Secrets
In shadows thick, where silence holds, Amara treads through tales untold. Fog curls and clings, a silver veil, Each step a whisper, soft and frail.
The gravestones stand like watchful eyes, As buried secrets start to rise. A name she knows, a man she fears, Whose crimes still echo through the years.
Beneath the earth, in hollowed tomb, Old sins are wrapped in death’s perfume. A breath escapes, a casket creaks, And through the screen, a madman speaks.
Curt's plea is soft, a haunted cry— A ghost with pain he can’t deny. But Martin’s voice, both cold and sly, Stirs dread in her, though she can’t say why.
She digs for truths, for bones and dust, Each spadeful weighed with doubt and trust. For ghosts don’t lie, yet still they scheme, And darkened souls can haunt a dream.
As secrets rise from shallow graves, And darkness tempts, but truth enslaves, She hears them speak, their stories told— In blood, in tears, in soil, and mold.
And there, beneath the midnight’s eye, Where shadows breathe and curses lie, She digs not just to find what’s true, But questions what the dead can do.