It is a blank canvas,
Just waiting for the artist's hand.
It is an empty book,
Waiting for the author's inspiration.
Like a soft ball of clay,
My mind is waiting for shaping.
You can turn me into a doll,
Or I could become something almost real.
With a little bit of luck and work,
My body might metamorphasize;
I might become something better than before.
But for the moment,
It is as white as the fresh fallen snow,
Waiting for the master's hand.
What will you make me?
What shall I be?