I feel the world freeze around me,
People stop, wait, and delay,
Heroes and villains, once sure of their actions,
Are now unsure of their ways,

The beasts who menace and devour,
Suddenly lose their appetite,
The sworn rivals put down their swords,
And finally give up their fight,

I know it might sound crazy,
But you'll just have to see,
How everywhere I go,
The world freezes around me,

I feel the writer's blood boil,
As I jump onto the page,
His fingers twitch and face turns red,
As I rob him of his brain,

"Why did I write this character?
He's a boring little fool!
I want to make people laugh and gasp,
Not sigh and yawn and drool!"

Yet the writer is mistaken,
He's the fool, not I,
For he tries to write around me,
Why does he even try?

I've made this world my home,
And I like it to be neat,
Not filled with noise and clamor,
And the marching soldier's feet,

He can start another project,
Because this project is now mine,
He's wrote himself into a corner,
And there's no writing out this time,

I much enjoy his anger,
I much enjoy his hate,
But I'd much prefer the silence,
When he gives up on this place,

The kingdom is all silent,
The peasants are a bore,
The knights are out all playing cards,
As the sleeping giants snore,

So give up, oh dear writer,
Let me have my peace,
Let me enjoy this boredom,
This banal and mundane feast,

If you come back here,
I might take a little more,
And turn your sci-fi setting,
Into an awful, lengthy bore