Hello.

Everyone always says the moon is covered in dust.
I'll let you in on an ancient moon-folk secret:

It's sand.

That beautiful gal,
is a sea of grit and shame,
abrasive and abusive,
caustic in a dry way.
And she's angry.

And to qualify that fury,
we must call back to some Greco-Roman sage,
who called it 'Menis Oulomene'
or 'Catastrophic Rage'

And she's me.
she's all I can ever be,
nowadays,
wake up in a fevered state,
in a haze
of doubt and remorse
and anger
and anger
and anger
and anger.

I can't identify the bogeyman in this story,
or what should receive the heat of my hate's glory,
but I'm furious.

When did I lose control of my self?
Was it when I fell in love....
or when my heart broke?