The ink can breathe. The ink has its needs. It needs to feed. It will be fed by me.

I have a pencil. I have a dream. To make a world. One ruled by me.

That what I can't make, I can always take. What was once just waste, now a beautiful lake.

Time and effort, money and power. Authority and cash, muscles and hours.

Born anew from within the ink. I will let my mind forever sink.

When I surface, with my face a grin. My perfect world I'll finally be in.