This page doesn’t write itself,
It needs a guiding hand.
A writer’s touch, a storyteller’s skill,
To craft a tale so grand.
But how much of this is written,
By a poet with intent?
And how much of this is invoked,
By an invisible hand with no consent?
For every mark is precious,
The page is awfully tight.
Each word must be carefully chosen,
Each line must flow just right.
Is such a page justified,
Without the touch of a human soul?
Or does it still embody the writer’s vision,
Without the skill but with a goal?
For this page is but a canvas,
And words the artist’s paint.
Who should decide the toolkit,
And who should give it restraint?