They burn with the sensation of want, need, movement, life

They itch, pushing me with disdain want, limbs that give me agonizing strife

The feeling it nevers leaves it’s permanently etched into my heart

Only when temptation is given into do these chords part

The paper that gravitates toward my desk has a number made of nine and nine

It’s this that reasons me to do what I do best: enshrine

 

The weavers slowly thread together the gunmetal dusted ash

On the wooden mockery of a escritoire, lays the embroidered gash

I wrench myself to reach the illusion of a mural

Everything is an artform, waiting for the grasp of my approval

The words I speak to strangers that I know like the desires of my soul

To the thoughts I share with friends who know not of my role

 

In the hall of which I move in I lay eyes on blank faces

They each hold a writing that I must open to and pace

The books who wait for their pages to be turned and finished

As I taken in each as a masterpiece of itself, my misunderstanding have diminished

I etch my name painstakingly into each, leaving my importance there

Now their writing is not just their, but now too, mine to bear

 

The written panel encases the window toward my impending path

Without it there are only glass shards and my lasting wrath

Rest nor food will trap me from my hard earned destination

Now my life is in my own hands and now I am my own creation

This has slow climbed into me without any notice or word

Without any command or reason the feelings have recurred

 

They burn with the sensation of want, need, movement, life

They itch, pushing me with disdain want, limbs that give me agonizing strife

The feeling it nevers leaves it’s permanently etched into my heart

Only when temptation is given into do these chords part

I now finally without a fight let myself take ultimate control

The feelings released whenever they please, will never take their toll