I get tired of people dismissing the music made with the aid of AI.
I listen to the songs on SUNO and other AI platforms and know the artistry and expression are genuine, not machine produced.
AI gives us a chance to place our thoughts into something tangible.
We are conductors.
We wave the baton and AI obeys.
- Three hundred songs.
- Same broken voice.
- Failed recorder class before I learned to spell,
- Bagpipes beat me too. Many know this story well.
- “Wrong lungs, wrong ear, wrong sound,”
- That’s what they handed down.
- At twelve I sang one note too low,
- Another door closed,
- and I learned to keep the music down.
- So I learned to write what I couldn’t sing,
- Millions of words, but no stage or anything.
- Wars and prayers and midnight lines,
- Every melody trapped inside my mind.
- So here’s to three hundred songs out loud,
- Same broken voice, brand-new sound.
- I don’t need perfect pitch or grace,
- Just words that need a place to land.
- AI never taught me how to sing,
- Never changed the way I am,
- It just opened up the silence
- And gave my silence a band.
- Three hundred songs.
- Same broken voice.
- Brand-new sound.
- I’m tone-deaf… yeah, I’ll own that now,
- Too deep, too rough, too never-allowed.
- But stories never cared about
- The notes I couldn’t figure out.
- They kept arriving day and night,
- Lines with rhythm I never claimed to be right.
- Not polished gold, not trained or clean,
- Just honest sounds of what I mean.
- Turns out music’s more than rules,
- More than perfect, more than school.
- Maybe all a song should do
- Is make a writer’s thoughts come through.
- So here’s to three hundred songs out loud,
- Same broken voice, brand-new sound.
- Here’s to every chorus lost
- To thinking I was not allowed.
- I don’t need their ears to hear,
- I don’t need them to understand,
- AI never gave me someone else’s voice,
- It gave my silence a band.
- If this is cheating, I’ll plead guilty now.
- But listen close, for this is me somehow.
- No borrowed heart, no borrowed pain,
- The words were mine before they had a name.
- And if the truth is why we sing,
- Then maybe this is everything:
- A kid who thought the door was closed
- Finding out it never had to be.
- So here’s to three hundred songs and more,
- To every door that stayed ajar,
- To every kid who heard “not for you”
- And kept that music in their heart.
- I may never hold a perfect note,
- Never sing the way they planned,
- But I found my way to music,
- And gave my silence a band.
- Three hundred songs.
- Same broken voice.
- And now my silence has a band.