• As I sit here with my glass of Dew from the Mountain,
    I think of the months past since yesteryear,
    Thousands of words ran through my head like a river flowing,
    Sometimes they made little sense, like much of this world,
    Sometimes they were deep, like the ocean,
    Sometimes romantic, like a Shakespearean sonnet,
    My mouth however refused to let these words out, so still they flowed through my mind like a sweet melody sang from a beautiful angel that graces my dreams,
    It saddened me to deprive the world of these songs, so if my mouth cannot speak, why not my fingers?
    So I write, and write I shall until the one that sings them hears the songs,
    Only then may my mouth speak these words,
    Until then they shall continue to dance through my head like she does on stage.
    It is a never-ending dance,
    Of tranquility,
    Of chaos,
    Of anger,
    Of love,
    And I must always write them.