The voice that speaks the language of my bones.
It tunes the strings of the orchestra my words
And so it plays a ballad so sweet , of my past memories and paths I have yet to foresee
In the paint of tears , of joy and despair , it paints  pictures that I must bear
No facades and veiled lies can scrub or mask the truth of this gallery of my own

This soul of mine an artist and a thief
To steal what I hold dear , what I so tediously have hidden
It unravels the string of shrugs , eyerolls and sarcasm
And publicises my diary of things I swore never to reveal