Alone On a Cliff

And I stand up here among the trees of old,
High up on an ancient cliff that rises into the clouds,
Towering high above all that is mortal and cold,
I stand alone.

The stars are shining bright tonight,
A prestige for me to behold,
The mountains sing a heavenly melody,
That echoes deep within in my memory.

An existence I desire not,
Where shadows fall upon me,
A Stygian hue dark and grey - truly,
I am longing to breathe again.

I survey the world beneath while
The arctic draught blows,
And in the wilderness bleak with snow,
I stand alone.

I'm Writing

I often ask myself why I write, and the reason isn't always that clear. Sure, I write to release my emotions, to express myself, to create. Marvel at that! When a person writes he is actually creating... Literature tells the stories of man, and imagine this, we are helping to create it. Perhaps then, the desire to want to write is is inherent in all of us. But many a time I have picked up a pen, and forced my mind to start, and dragged my fingers along that scrap of paper. Certain words just refuse to emerge. My essay refuses to flow like the stream I want it to. I often get frustrated when the words I want to say actually defy my authority and simply vanish into the ether. Words I know mean all the world to me, or to a friend, or simply someone else. But words, they are but words. How do you know when they will actually fail you?

They've failed this very instant, for they've failed to express the way I truly feel.