Who was it that robbed you of your voice?

Who's slithery hand reached down your esophagus and tied your vocal cords in knots?

Who was it that locked up your soul?
Chiseling your emotions into solid stone.

Who was it that twisted the curves of your smile upside down?

Was it old man winter who painted sorrow in your eyes more accurately than Picasso?

Or was it an even older man, the creator, the man that rules everything? Was it he who told you not to be happy?

Ah I know,

how could I be so blind.

It must have been the imperfectly formed face staring back at you in mirror that's causing all this trouble.

It must have been me.