Will you still love me tomorrow?

I had been looking for a voice,
With a sweet and by-gone grace,
I had been wishing to deliver the delicate thoughts,
With an eloquent and divine hum. My unfortunate admittance is that I shall never possess a voice, not one worth hearing, of course. I will write so practised and curled as might wish to be read due to it's beauty alone, but the stringing together of verbal release may not come to me. 
 I was once given an honest and well said opinion, that it was so shocking; the difference when I speak as to the words I am able to get down. Some one who might write as I, mightn't deliver a song as such.
As it is, I must cut this a little short, and write to absolutely no one that my writing has continued, for I have written every day, at least a word, detested or not. But I have not spoken every day.