The man on the moon must watch us with bothered glances as we repeat our mistakes beneath the unforgiving moonlight that shines across the darken land. When he sails through the night on his ship made of the moon, he pleads for us to stop, but his words taken are by the breeze and never heard.

On nights when a storm brews in the night sky and he cannot see our fickle faces change to blue, the thunder roars with rage and lighting threatens to touch it's light onto the ground. It's nights like these that cause him to worry for us. He becomes overcome with a sorrow that first starts in the heart before stretching to reach the cold tips of trembling fingers and tingles the sides of the stomach. He longs to call for someone, to be heard, yet he knows his words will never reach us for it never has before.

But when the sky is clear from clouds, and his moonlight can guide creatures of the night, he watches from a distance. He calls our names, asking us to stop our self-pity, to not worry and let go of the pain we clutch onto so dearly due to it becoming a frequent feature in life.

However, his words are wasted (as always) and he soon watches the sun touch its beams onto the earth. As the morning heaves to cover the night, he can only hope that the blaze of the sun will show our flawed mistakes, and make you understand why the man on the moon watches with distaste. But when the night returns and his light looks down, he knows that the sun wasn't bright enough for you.

The man on the moon, why couldn't he come down when the time was right and tell me things that I never knew. I now try to call for you to come, but you never reply. Will it always be like this? My mind left to wonder what you think of me.

We are not forever, we may one day pass through to another world or simply cease to exist in this one. We do not live for the infinite life we desire as time is not made for us to enjoy. Man may have made it, but not for the benefit of making our lives longer, only to measure it.

The wind howls outside with agony as rain droplets intimidate us by hammering harshly onto the soil of the earth, collecting themselves into pools of puddles and running into the lakes to hide until they must return to the sky. I'm waiting for a whisper of wise words to show me what I should do next.

Would I dare to scream at the night? To wish for wisdom in a weak state? A ridiculous action, I know, but the guilt of my previous deeds of judging the innocent now rests upon my shoulders. It drowns me in a sea of tarry regret and tears of sorrow. I can't breathe like I used to. My throat has become clogged with the ocean, my eyes struggle to see through the murky water of salt and I can feel my lungs collapsing beneath the rolling waves.

I try to keep my head above the water, I try to inhale the air to stay alive, but I can't keep doing this anymore. I should just hold my breath for as long as I can and allow this water to lie over my head and drown me. Will someone hear my cries before I go under?

I wonder what the man on the moon would say about my regrets, but thunder made from sneering laughter is the only thing that replies to me. Somehow, I've grown used to it -not nearly as much as silence in the hours before storms, of course, but it seems I'm okay to watch my life become a wreckage at sea. Perhaps, once this final storm is over, the man on the moon will be the one to find me. Maybe he'll ask someone to be sympathetic towards me despite the things I have committed.

And for all I know, everyone will continue to live a life without hearing his words.