When he names her the moon
How it makes her ears warm and cheeks rouge.
She glees like the misty sky of December,
And I cringe like the summer of June.
I watch the lovers with a keen eye,
As his love comes pouring out undone.
I see them in each other’s arms
Laughing and squealing under the sun.
Hypocrites! Hypocrites! Hypocrites!
Cries the offended sunny afternoon.
As the couple sets out for a picnic
While reminiscing about the beauty of the moon.
I smile and wave at them,
Before leisurely heading to my room.
I grab my muse, my pen to ink down,
How I do not want to be the moon.
Dear Diary, I whisper like a 13-year-old,
Why compare her face to the moon?
Or her flaws to its unsightly craters and hideous pits.
Rather than the glowing sire of the brilliant noon?
I choose warmth of the day
To the mystery of the night.
How tasteless to borrow your charm,
How wonderful to be the bearer of that light!
What is better than to be the sun
With a million glowing rays,
That make the man arise from his slumber
And keeps him warm on a cold day.
An inspiring muse
That only appears in the dark
Does not compare to the hope
That never lets one disembark.
I do not just want to play with water
But burn with unending passion,
Keep warm or glare with anger
And shine through others even in my absence.
Of light, warmth, and life;
There is just one, or there is none,
I am the sun.
I am the sun.
Romeo and Juliet: Act II, Scene II Romeo: It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.