I can't help but feel melancholy when the night falls. Why do I feel so?
What cursed influence has gotten me so engulfed in such a weak emotion?
Is it the cool, icy breeze that seems to pierce through my warm flesh?
Is it the darkness of the eerie night that seems to summon distant, lonely cries?
The only pleasure I seem to, appropriately have,
Is the company of the silvery shine of the moon,
One that competes with the glittery twinkle of billions of stars.
In that solitary moment, I find peace,
Ideas, pouring into blank papers in the form of words,
Carefully crafting sentences into stories,
What bliss,
Word by word, pages by pages
What bliss,
Until I fall into a deep slumber.
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