Creation thrums through my veins,
perhaps in place of crimson blood is ebony ink.
I breathe life into you
with sweeping movements of hands
        that leave gray marks onto paper,
or the touch of a nib
        to vellum where smooth, stark black is left.
I make worlds with my words,
weave tales of fantasy and adventure,
of creatures mythical and unreal.
Pour myself out as I write,
        as I create and make and forge,
                until all that I am is this creation,
                are these words.
This is an obsession that consumes me,
a passion that leaves me rambling,
a love for this oblivion it gives me.
        For the way all that matters is my words,
        the way I form worlds.