and in due time we will fall. we make ourselves civil and we make ourselves wonderful. too bad beauty wont get you far, and sadness wont buy you lunch. the saddest people are the richest; kristov once said as his hands punctured keys and tried to find emotion on a floor. while i left myself forgotten and hopeful on a thought of a better day, dont wait for love, love waits for you, i say as i sit by myself, stoned as cleopatra was. what if i bathed, my pores hot and i drowned myself in inward sorrows. would my brow still boast with its tears (aka the sweat). i cannot write with stars, and i cant pull them out of your eyes like you'd wish of me, i feel countries moving and male erections press against thighs because to love physically, to love in such way is a sin. fright is what we wait for, fright is death itself. we stay norm and hold virginity and ignorance to every movement and action and thought, until it is removed from brain as a fear. what if i made my throat fit into your hands? would you jar open my lungs and pull out disease? can you make me whole and let me realize that i'm too much for you, when you speak of love and being the only one to use my name regularily, you make me seem like something not of plagarism and fault. i am change. the season of tides.