Answer:
I am nothing really at all, Yet I am easily found; Ignore me at your own peril, and you might end up crowned!
Searing 'cross the pitch-black skies, I scream in celebration, Yet moments later, my outburst through, I am naught but imagination.
I always run but never walk, I sometimes sing but cannot talk, No head on which a hat to place, You always look me in the face.
It is the electronic version of junk mail or a salty meat in a can.
Blend a teapot shot so the pearlies won’t rot!
What covers its face with its hands, speaks no language, yet most known what it's saying?