Answer:
Searing 'cross the pitch-black skies, I scream in celebration, Yet moments later, my outburst through, I am naught but imagination.
My first is high, My second damp, My whole a tie, A writer's cramp
What can't you see, hear or feel, until its too late. What shadows love, and shopkeepers hate?
It's equally comfortable in an orchestra and a geometry textbook. What is it?
What can be forever wound up but never annoyed?
What language does a billboard speak?
Difficult
Difficult
Animal
Easy
Food
Funny
Kids
Logic
What am I?