Bos of pictures

You made up a box of pictures

You made them up for me

Whether I was worthy, willing, wanting

You drew them tenderly

And I have nothing else to give

And I had nothing left to say

From the moment moving, moaning, making

And I was nothing, given away

To mistresses woven like walls

To manhandlers who can only berate

While you were waiting, wondering, wanting 

To draw me through my given fate

And draw me through till I was made

And draw me through with lines and patterns

Which no matter how I use them now

Are just a box of pictures 

And I'm not a hero 

And I'm not a villain

I'm just tatters