I'm a painter here--
my pencil's the paintbrush,
the paper my canvas.

Happy, sad, good, bad:
I control every part of you
once my thoughts come to life.

Lately I've spent too much time
emphasizing the dark in your portraits,
turning you into some monster.

But you're not pure evil;
I must've lost my pastels--
can't seem to paint you in a lighter way.

How can I call myself a painter
when my most recent works have been
****** up optical illusions instead?