The rhythm of the burnt pages,
Of the diary of life with no wages,
Pages of old memories,
That you may consider as stories,
Which sometimes ooz tears out of me
That which I wish u knew.

The rhythm of the smokes of the diary,
That which makes me weary,
Putting in you in a dilemma,
A sophisticated dilemma.

Pages that makes me smile suddenly,
But in the aftermath, resulting in a cry,
Then I sit solely,
My tears has not dry,

I might have cried ruining my make up,
Pages in that needs to be burnt,
That which I write every morning when I wake up,
Memories I can't erase, pages that will remain burnt.