This place speaks in ink,
In pixel-perfect scrawls,
Drafts are in the past,
Replaced by a backspace
Key in a keyboard that plays songs
In words not sound.

Inspiration has no value,
Unless it makes you rich,
Who writes for fun?
No marks, no grades, for wasting away
Hours on crafting power,
Into words.

The language we've learnt,
Is disposable, recyclable,
Play-the-game cheatable,
Not truth but jumping through hopes,
No reward for moving forward,
Creativity by method.