The sound of pen biting into paper is like a bell ringing from somewhere off in the darkness. Black ink spills a thousand tears that I can no longer cry, and every word written is every word that I feel, everything that I keep inside. And I cannot stop writing. My soul has found voice through the pen, and my fingers hunger now to type. If not for art, then I would be caged, drowning from pages of my life unwritten still. But I am writing, and with each page, I tell you of my life. My life is not one of sweet roses and moonlight strolls but one walked in shadows in hopes of finding light over a no longer broken road, and I write. Freedom is a breath of air not stolen from the weight of the world, and here I am free. For in the heart of night, I sit by my desk in candlelight and write in this journal before me, and I pour my heart and soul out in hopes of being able to fall asleep one night without worry, without fear, and without despair. So I write and hope that one day you will find my words somewhere in the void that we call cyberspace, and I wish for you to know me. I am chalk outline on a brick wall built along streets of this world. I am ghost to the crowds swarming around me. I am rose trying to bloom. I am and will always be the poet, the writer, and forever the dream, and I still write. Find me here, find me out there for one day, maybe I will be that star in the sky shining ever so brightly as I once dream, and now the flame bids good-night to another night spent in writing.