I whip my brush like a sword,
Splash the red ink like blood it can afford.
We are all born a blank canvas,
Might as well stare at the horrendous carcass.
It is when I start to run wild and free,
Cross the deepest, widest sea,
Just to find the things I seek,
And take it all until it leak.
So gather up and fix your gear,
For the ride is foggy and unclear.
You might not want to meet your fear,
It is only a matter of creation, my dear.
