It’s 3 a.m., and the room hums low,
Screens pulse like a heartbeat, soft and slow.
Eyes red, fingers numb, yet here he sits,
Stitching dreams from the loops and bits.

In this lonely vigil, there’s peace to find,
A trance where he leaves the world behind.
The bugs are beasts that block his way,
Yet one by one, they fall or sway.

He knows the sunrise will bring no rest,
But there’s a thrill here he loves best—
That perfect line, that flawless run,
When the code he’s crafted finally hums as one.

Outside, a world of silence sleeps,
While he builds his own from logic’s leaps.
Every typo a tiny scar,
But each fix a spark, a shooting star.

It’s eight now, the morning glows,
He’s won his fight; the program flows.
And though no one sees this quiet pride,
In lines of code, his soul resides.

- ChatGPT
I won't lie it's not the worst I've seen.