You've taken your brush and painted my tears the color of clear...

Although I am not a canvas, you treated me as if I was, and I was unwillingly modified to your likings.

I'll admit that I was as bland as the empty rarities of some, but I didn't want to be changed - not at all.

You took the sadness of blue and used it on me; now my eyes portray the density and impact of being desolated.

You molded me into your art.

I didn't want to be changed - not at all.