The words that you read
were born from a wrist,
and aching thoughts
come out as selfish.

Against a speedy yield,
what notions slip away?
The sting to find appeal
confuses me today.

What is the point
in trying so hard,
and doing the work?
With time comes the art.

How do I fit
if I take more time?
And time has no price—
but I do have mine.

Has my passion gone sour,
or has it been sour?
Either way it’s put,
I remain a doubter.

Weaving a feeling
with letters together
is no longer special—
with plenty pretenders.

What is the point
in saying my piece?
If submitting to schemes
dissolves my beliefs.

How do I fit
in ages of code?
Where all that is honed
is now being cloned.