Examples of types in a poem form written by AI

[The Reality Denialist]

The goal is to prompt it to make a poem that fits the type characteristics. So, it does not mean "Write me an LSE poem".

Something like

Here’s a poem written from the perspective of a managerial director, reflecting personal qualities such as leadership, vision, responsibility, and decisiveness
....

Here’s a revised version of the poem, with more personal depth and character, reflecting the emotional nuances and qualities of a managerial director

I'll start with LSE

The Weight of My Signature

I wake to the hum of deadlines near,
The pulse of plans that I engineer.
In quiet moments, I pause, reflect—
The course I set, the lives I affect.


They see the title, the suit, the stride,
But beneath, it’s vision I cannot hide.
A drive that whispers in the late-night air,
"Lead them further, if you dare."


I don’t just sign—each stroke is mine,
A mark that ripples down the line.
It’s not about control or pride,
But steering hearts and minds beside.


Every decision feels like a test,
The team is my mirror, they deserve my best.
I juggle the future with yesterday’s debt,
Knowing success is a promise kept.


Some days, the pressure claws too deep,
As expectations steal my sleep.
But there’s joy in the chaos, peace in the climb—
The art of building over time.


I carry the stories they don’t often see,
Of late-night calls and quiet victory.
Of lifting the timid, pushing the bold,
Balancing fire with hands that hold.


I’m a leader, yes, but more than that—
A keeper of dreams where others sat.
In every failure, a seed is sown—
In every triumph, we’ve all grown.


So when you ask what drives me still,
It’s not the power, not the thrill.
It’s knowing that through thick and thin,
I help them rise. I help them win.

[CosmicCat]

Let's analyze your evil poem.

Some annotations.

Of late-night calls and quiet victory.

LSI/SLI vigilante kills (the good mood of) runaways eating up the night (klingons in space) while watching over the babes (wee bairns) cause he'll be there

In every triumph, we’ve all grown.

Club of socials. charismatic man of duty knows that YES WE CAN! we can do it TOGETHER! despite all the times that no they didn't because reality is what the togetherness decides it to be in consensus. STAY TOGETHER! No one will be left behind!

I help them rise. I help them win.

LSI "I will make it impossible for you to need to be punished." Not unlike this song.

[The Reality Denialist]

ummm... well here is my LSI prompt result

Beneath the Calm
I lead with calm, a steady hand,
A figure firm that takes command.
No flare of instinct clouds my mind—
I trust the data, cold, refined.


To others, I’m a rock, a guide,
A wall of reason, no shift, no slide.
Decisions sharp, like clean-cut steel,
For every choice, a measured deal.

But underneath this tempered guise,
Lies something hidden, something wise.
A hunger grows, ambition’s call—
To rise beyond, to claim it all.


Yet I don’t charge with reckless fire,
My path is crafted, planned, entire.
No leap of faith, no guess, no chance—
Each step a masterful, slow dance.


I speak in lines they understand,
In words that comfort, cool, and bland.
They never see the threads I weave,
Or what the quiet mind conceives.


Where others follow sudden lights,
I map the sky on sleepless nights.
No room for dreams or visions bold—
Just strategies in silence told.


So watch me build, watch me rise,
A conquering force in muted skies.
For power’s not in flame or might,
But in the shadows of insight.


My reign will come, though few will see—
I lead with order, quietly.
And when I claim what I pursue,
They’ll call it destiny, not coup.

[The Reality Denialist]

SLI

The Quiet Maker
I lead with care, a silent hand,
In spaces where the quiet stand.
I watch, I learn, I navigate,
Yet speaking out—oh, I hesitate.


The world of people draws me in,
Their stories rich, beneath the skin.
But words don’t come so easily,
I study them from far, you see.


Hands are my voice, in craft I find,
A language that is pure, refined.
Each stroke, each touch, a skillful grace,
In work, I seek my truest place.


I see the beauty in design,
In what is crafted, clean, divine.
A chair well-built, a door well-fit,
These speak to me, and I to it.


But though I seek a life of ease,
In comfort’s arms I try to please,
A curious side still stirs the soul,
To glimpse the new, to find the whole.


Yet every change, each unseen view,
Is shrouded thick in foggy hue.
I struggle there, to find the key,
That opens doors to what could be.


So I return to what I know—
The simple path, the steady flow.
In quiet craft, in calm retreat,
Where labor’s touch and mind can meet.


But still, I dream of other skies,
Of new horizons, bold and wide.
Though hard to see, I stretch to feel,
The world that waits, beyond the wheel.

[The Reality Denialist]

SLE

March of Will

I charge ahead with iron stride,
No room for doubt, no need to hide.
The goal in sight, the path is clear—
I’ll break through walls, I’ll face the fear.


Like soldier’s steel, I stand, I lead,
A sharpened edge, designed to speed.
I bend the rules, I shift the line,
To make the conquest wholly mine.


My mind is built on structure, force,
A system forged to stay the course.
I wield it swift, my weapon sharp,
Yet deep within, I feel the spark.


For though I crush what blocks my way,
A part of me is held at bay.
I see the fragile, small and pure,
The artist’s hand, the heart unsure.


But I can’t yield, can’t let it show,
My mission’s first—onward I go.
Yet there’s a part I keep inside,
That aches when beauty’s brushed aside.


I’ll never stop, I’ll reach the end,
Each challenge met, each rule I bend.
But still, beneath this iron will,
A softness calls me, quiet, still.


I hide it well, the part that’s weak,
That longs for moments small, unique.
But in the midst of war and flame,
I see the tender, feel the same.


So onward, forward, fast I go,
No slowing down, no hint of woe.
Yet somewhere, hidden deep within,
A softer soul fights not to win.