V4.5, 4:45 A.M.

[Intro] 3:59 on the clock, my eyes do that soft burn, I whisper: mirror-murmur, measure-pleasure—my turn. [Verse] They said v4.5 “hears the details,” so I feed it details— “leaf textures,” “melodic whistling,” my own tiny trails. At 4:45 a.m. I’m stitching syllables, slippery, slanted, silvered—trying to stay singable. The new prompt helper shines like a polite suggestion, But I want the messy truth of my own inflection. [Pre-Chorus] If I type it too pretty, it sounds like anyone. So I keep one crooked line that only I would’ve done. [Chorus] V4.5, meet my lopsided lullaby, I’m not chasing perfect—I’m chasing alive. Let the chorus bloom, then yank it back to bone, So the listener hears a person, not a tone. [Bridge] I mouth a knotty phrase: thirty thirsty thieves—then laugh, Because even my mistakes feel like craft. If the model learns my habit of softening “t,” Maybe it’s learning me—or maybe I’m learning to be free. [Outro] 4:45 a.m., I export the ache, Put it in the mix—let it shake.