A skill learned through practice, breeds arrogance.

None, more so than art, where pauper becomes knight in his subjective.

And writers start to lose objective, of which they strived to make that night.
When sleeplessness drove sacrifice, less they may not wake up.

Let echo then these words in blind directive.
Unread, unfathomed, but still satisfied.

And let annoyance and revulsion play it's strings.
For a skull scraped by a saw, still sings.