A pencil in my hand,
I feel the wood grain between my fingers.
Gentle motions turning vigourous under
My neural command.
A sense of control overwhelms my being,
These moments revive my dominance.
With this utensil the celestial body in it's entirety,
Is mine for keeping.
I have drawn a world in full with
Cascading shades of gray;
A globe of surrealism that
Withholds the beauty of light and dark
Crystalline carbon is the gateway to my escape,
My hand is the skeleton key,
The paper is my destination.
Wherever or however I'm trapped
Is a mundane complication;
Escapable through movements of the wrist,
With a number two pencil in my hand.