The Madness of The Moon.

Hey y’all. Just a note before my latest poem. I’m going to try to get on a schedule with my blog. I will be posting on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Thanks for reading.


Moon, what exactly are you there for? You confound me. I want to howl at you, curse you, defile you. But you’re some kind of ancient voodoo. I can’t seem to get over you. How you love to spoon feed me hope. I want the night back, you questionable ball of light.

I always end up swooning like a girl who’s crushing on a guy in a band. The band’s amazing. The guy’s a jerk. My heart’s eclipse begins with you. I try to catch you, but you thrive on being elusive. I can’t extract a single angle of your countenance.

You’re the world’s worst suitor. You disappear on a whim- so indecisive. Here I sit. Hoping for a whisper, a sigh, any kind of insight. Just trying to solve your scrambled math.

I’ll never have you, but I can write about you. I’m going to write fast and long into your face, drenching you with heat. Something you could never fathom. You, with no promise of sensuality, just what we poets give you. How we like to romanticize you. Ironic, since the sparks belong to forgotten stars. They glimmer with desire.

Don’t even get me started on the sun. Now there’s a real hero. Direct. No BS.

I should write about its illustrious wonder. Sadly, it holds its own appeal (even though it’s so much better than you). I’ve always found the sun’s blinding light to be the enemy of my creativity.

No, silly woman that I am, I’m haunted by quartered light, half coming some nights, half leaving the next. You expect the darkness to clean up the carnage while you turn away, and decide what shape to take. Yet, here I am, on my knees, dreams in hand, hoping for the sly wink of your fucking wane.

-Tosha Michelle