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

In unison.

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.