Beauty is eternal, ever changing, in an ocean's worth of shades, in colours of nature and of man made, the sun rises into many colours yet is beautiful all hours of the day, and the moon turns many shapes and angles, still loved by poets and those with beauty in their eyes. Whoever came to say beauty is a mould, a single series of patterns, has ceased to be human, has cut off the human rawness inside. Watch me, see me, observe how I weep cries of raging tears, the fire inside me so immense my tears burn into vapour as I feel my chest tighten more every time and my spine crawl into itself more every time I remember humans, foolish beings who limit beauty in a colour and in a face and in a shape like absolute fools, like childish abnormalities, I cry then, but real and pitiful, with realization, humans are ugly and in their ugliness, they turned beauty itself into a creature of human's hands, into ugly becoming, weld from the cruelty of man.
