Am I truly myself, or a collection of lines
Did I start out as a sketch til I was gradually defined
Time will tell nothing to no one
Only eyes that look for answers could possibly hold some
Every time I die I'm brought back slightly lessened
And every time I wonder if this should hold a lesson
We are all just products of understanding
The spot on which we're standing without being too demanding
I know where I am, but where will I go
The roles are reversed as vultures circle below
The flow of the game is said to be controlled
By the faces that we make and the cards that we hold
If there is a god, he probably looks like Tex Avery
Creating living beings just to make each other angry
There's an audience, somewhere, out there, that's laughing
While mortal men spend lifetimes slaving for their passions

(Hook)
First comes the pencils, then comes the pens
It's been drawn once then we go over it again
Next comes the letters, then the colors, then we print
The visuals are almost as important as the script
We walk the lines of possible, if not we climb the obstacles
Within the pages of our books, we do the impossible
We do the impossible, within the pages of our books

Be I hero or villain, or something inbetween
What's the point of all these labels, can you tell me what they mean
Nothing's what it seems and that's the way it has to be
Naturally I look around and all I see is apathy
In actuality the concept of choice is just a fallacy
Since we all adhere to the rules of the galaxy
Like gravity, and self destructive vanity
If reality is a killing floor then I guess that makes it casualties
We casually sleepwalk through life
Missing both moments of elation and those of strife
Content to play the roles that the author writes
Past is prologue, and future is bright, lets make it tonight
I might have it in me to be the hero, potentially
But I won't know if I don't try it eventually
Essentially we wanna be central to the narrative
It's all relative or at least compartive

(Hook)
First comes the pencils, then comes the pens
It's been drawn once then we go over it again
Next comes the letters, then the colors, then we print
The visuals are almost as important as the script
We walk the lines of possible, if not we climb the obstacles
Within the pages of our books, we do the impossible
We do the impossible, we do the impossible

And destiny is just a fancy word for entropy
Itself is just a way to say we all will die eventually
History has proven that its mostly still unwritten
And the truths we should pursue are the ones that are forbidden
Search the Earth for meaning and you'll only come back screaming
Asking the diamond why its gleaming and discover that you're dreaming
Man's only purpose is to walk this world's surface
Complaining til the day he dies that nothing's ever perfect
I wish it were more simple, but simply put its not
And from the day we're drawn, the ink begins to rot
The color starts to fade as we move towards the grave
And we're promised a reprinting if we all sit and behave
Four colors, four walls, four limbs, and four dimensions
The path to Hell is well and good, now act on those intentions
We walk the lines of possible, if not we climb the obstacles
Within the pages of our books we do the impossible

(Hook)
First comes the pencils, then comes the pens
It's been drawn once then we go over it again
Next comes the letters, then the colors, then we print
The visuals are almost as important as the script
We walk the lines of possible, if not we climb the obstacles
Within the pages of our books, we do the impossible
We do the impossible

We do the impossible
We do the impossible
We do the impossible