Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Jun 2017 · 302
deliquesce
James Christine Jun 2017
******.
As in,
Struck-
Touched so deeply
I almost bleed
But the red-hot liquid
pouring out of me
Is not red.
May 2017 · 439
BREATH/BODY
James Christine May 2017
MY INSIDES ARE BURNING WITH DESIRE
NOT WITH PHYSICAL DESIRE, BUT WITH THE DESIRE TO
PRESS MY SOUL AGAINST YOURS.
TO SHARE IN OUR SOULS AS
PEOPLE SHARE IN A MEAL.
FROM A PLACE SO DEEP WITHIN ME,
DEEPER AND MORE LIQUID THAN THE
CORE OF THIS VERY EARTH
HOLDING UP MY BONES. SO THEY CAN
BREAK CRUMBLE
                                   DISINTEGRATE
INTO YOU.
MY BONES I THINK THEY ARE MEANT TO
BREATHE LIFE INTO YOUR EYES.
James Christine Nov 2016
bearing our souls
barefooted, our soles.
bearing the weight
of only our bare
***** souls.
James Christine Nov 2016
the days bleed
as I do with the moon
cut into shapes
unrecognizable
I hold them in my hand with a furrowed brow.

the leaves are falling in slow motion.
the leaves are f a l l i n g  i n  s l o w  m o t i o n

T. Robbins tells of autumn, it breeds the birth of death
so the smell of the birth of death lingers
on the ground, under our bare feet.

when winter passes
the leaves will float back up to the trees
and then death is dying.

the leaves become alive with green
the sun warms winter bones

so the smell of life spreads from the trees to the ground
where I stand dying
in slow motion.
we are all d y i n g  i n  s l o w  m o t i o n
Nov 2016 · 144
under feet that bleed
James Christine Nov 2016
bones encased in muscled sinewy epiderm
muscles and bones with the fat carved out
that move through the earth
move the earth
carve the fat out of the earth
and left what is of the earth,
that of white bones, dried and dust in the sun

feet with the bones sticking out
walk over the soft mounds of earthly flesh,
the jagged steeples, the cool padded flats.
but no footprints shall they leave,
in their place small drops
spattered red, deep and dark
bearing likeness to that from which they came

upon the rippling mirror,
delicately they slip under
under to where sound and light cease
and existence is defined by feel
white flesh, white bones
white light
goodnight
Sep 2016 · 288
body heat
James Christine Sep 2016
flesh on flesh
fire in the belly
red tongues
white fright

mouth on mouth
strain to smother
fire within
burns still

bodies to ashes
scattered o'er fileds
fertile soil
bodies grow
Sep 2016 · 197
In the Forest
James Christine Sep 2016
I will line my  ribcage with leaves
fill it with earth
and plant your spirit
Jul 2016 · 573
Not Another One Night Stand
James Christine Jul 2016
poetry* like ***
you and me
**** let's make it three
let us find the perfect word
and ride it to the end.

in a spirited fervor
a tornado of limb and lip
tearin up the town, unabashed poetry.

exposed, we dive soul-first into the inkwell
in the distance, a tsunami approaching
tension builds underneath the surface
submerged in our wave, the rhythm takes hold

clouds collide
a warning signal
a thunderous revolt
white hot poetry
strikes again.
Jul 2016 · 1.4k
the blue-green balloon
James Christine Jul 2016
for this exercise
imagine the earth is a balloon.
neglect to hold on, like a particle of dust it floats on.
hold too tight, it will surely meet a supernova plight.
a thunder of cosmic dust particles float on.

so comes into question the integrity of tension and slack.
balance, rhythm, harmony.

I carve out of the earth, an empty space.
year after year I sweat my salty soul into the earth-space.
earth from which I came, earth in which I live, in which I will return.
the earth fills, an icy mirror of tears.
my reflection surfaces-
be vigilant not to sever the roots that pump lifeblood into my veins.
not to poison the leaves that breathe initiative into my lungs.
welcome with parted lips the sweet sap to sustain and inspire.
thinking lots about how much time I pour into holding on to earthly ties, then equal amounts of time spent trying to let go.  from earth I came, to earth I will go.
James Christine Apr 2016
wisps of hair float across your face
as you uproot a strand of prairie grass
and clasp your hands 'round it, bring it to your lips, and blow

In a wild meadow
I stand with you
in cutoff levis patches on the knees
cottonmouth and butterflies in my yellowbelly

Long after the cotton gin.
Still remains,
a thicket 'round your soul
;addition: and blow; the sweetest love song ever to enter my ears
Mar 2016 · 553
Like No Place On Earth
James Christine Mar 2016
a place a place
a place to hold space

one day i might just stumble upon
this elusive..
mapped in my brain since youth
an all-consuming sweet tooth

a place a place
a place to leave no trace

fragmented and fuzzy, like the first blinks of the morning
some particular details carved out of this elusive..
some vague idea bordering these particular details

a place a place
a place to call home base
still wandering this earth in search of that place to call home.
Mar 2016 · 440
Earthbeats
James Christine Mar 2016
this single earthly pulse
is lemon-slice palatable.
palms to earth, pulse to pulse.
the table is set and now we dine.
the only calm in life I feel is in the natural world.
Dec 2015 · 327
finding roots
James Christine Dec 2015
flannel's a good color on you.
flannel is a memory of a childhood.
wholesome, natural.  deeply rooted in the earth.
***** hands and ***** feet.
track in mud.
never have I felt cleaner.
i want to feel the earth on my skin.
i want to share that heartbeat.  
i want to love like the golden wheat fields.
i want to be loved like an old oak forest.
Dec 2015 · 337
a beautiful creature
James Christine Dec 2015
on the horizon
paled hair, long and flowing and silvery in the winter sun
it sways in rhythm with your stride
your eyes a clouded blue, yet piercing and bright
brows thick and straight
ears pink from the cold, jut out from either side of your face
freckles kiss your forehead, your wind-chapped cheeks, nose, and chest
a strong and elegant body
hands, large calloused and worn reveal you are a child of the earth
your jaw cuts a sharp line as your head turns to meet mine
you smell of fallen leaves, of pine forests, campfire, and morning dew.
your red flannel is worn thin
in the spot where I find peace
once again.
Dec 2015 · 537
Desire
James Christine Dec 2015
at the core of my being is a beast
so selfish
it is unspeakable
yet so human
it goes without words


*oh to be loved.
Dec 2015 · 248
strong backs pay the price
James Christine Dec 2015
imagine a single knot.
every direction you move, with each shift, you feel the pull.  
sometimes sharp direct
sometimes a dull slow ache
it travels, coursing pain through your entire body
sensory overloaded brain
can' escape the pain
when will it stop.
cease fire
Dec 2015 · 350
this is OCD on your life
James Christine Dec 2015
wake up, get out of bed
***. wash your hands. not clean enough, wash again.  Use two pumps of soap. didn't get sudsy enough, wash again.
do your stretches, **** stop. do them in the right order. for the correct amount of time. **** stop.  you have to start all over again.  
take your vitamins.  don't forget any, it will be treacherous.
drink a tall glass of water. finish the entire thing. maybe just one more glass to ensure your health.  something bad could happen if you don't finish that water..
Go for a run. Good, this is helpful, calms the tendencies.  Exhaustion of the body gives you clarity of mind to fight it today.
Done running, stretch.  Gotta count correctly, stretch the right way. **** stop.  Start again, didn't do it right, missed a step, missed a count.  Stretch again from the top.
Inside, wash up. wash once more to be sure. Scrub harder, bleed.
drink another glass of water.
Begin preparing a breakfast.  Don't eat too much.  Don't eat too much.  Don't eat too much.

And it's only 10am.
exhaustion.
to be continued..
Sep 2015 · 212
Clay Feet
James Christine Sep 2015
I waited and heard clay feet go
And in my mouth fear and trust
Is that man proud to lie?
My wonderful thoughts
if I would speak them, they are desire.
burnt and required.
I come written.
Delight within my heart.
My lips have hid.
Within my heart, I have concealed truth.
Tender truth
preserve me.
head. heart. soul. Seek
love (art).
Sep 2015 · 287
Prosper, Perish
James Christine Sep 2015
blessed is the ungodly
in the seat of the scornful
delight in day and night
and by the water
Prosper
like the wind
Stand
'fore the way
Perish
Section of an Earlier Blackout Poem I created.  Thinking of combining both sections.
James Christine Feb 2015
sometimes the last line appears first.
organization is fictional anyway.

what does it look like when your heart explodes?
does it paint the town red?

this is our adventure.
our bodies- untamed wildernesses.
for only the most fearless explorers.

come come now,  get to know me.

just follow these ole laughter lines.
James Christine Oct 2014
the space between your big toe and your other toes
perfectly compliments
the space between your two front teeth.
i never associated chest hair
with sexiness
until now
i'd spend the morning with my index and ******* between your *******, gently following that glorious line of hair
covering your sternum.
i'd spend the day tenderly kissing each of your toes, one by one.
don't panic.
and the night lost in the stars on your left shoulder
methodically grouping them into
sets of three
til my heartbeat slows
and our breath is left
Oct 2014 · 256
soon it will be cold
James Christine Oct 2014
i'd spend the night lost in the stars on your left shoulder
methodically grouping them into
sets of three
til my heartbeat slows
and all that's left is brea(d)th
James Christine Oct 2014
my heart comes undone
[i] carry my joy on the left
how beautiful to be.
[i] carry my pain on the right
while you are away
state of emergency
is where i want to be

[i] thought that i could organize freedom
our love in a ball of yarn

there's definitely no logic
to human behaviour
Credit to Bjork for use of her song title "Pagan Poetry" and her lyrics.  She is a genuine creator of human emotion and spectacularly talented artist.
Sep 2014 · 427
to the brim (on the brink)
James Christine Sep 2014
heart filled
                                                         ­     to the brim
with terror

mind filled
                                                         ­     to the brim
with wreckless thought

eyes filled
                                                         ­     to the brim
with tears

mouth filled
                                                         ­     to the brim
with cotton

ears filled*
                                                         ­    to the brim
with propaganda
Sep 2014 · 374
liquid heat
James Christine Sep 2014
have you ever found yourself out running in the sweltering midday sun and you keep thinking '******* it's hot out here, I wonder if anyone will find my body when I pass out..'

and then some nondescript thought-altering point occurs in which you decide to not only embrace the heat, but become one with it.  you feel your body melting into its' thickness, you breathe it in and it fuels you

you are transformed into solar energy that propels your legs to stride and arms to pump and your heart to heal.
been thinking about and experiencing this particular feeling a lot lately... this is a stream of conscious continuation of those thoughts.
May 2014 · 494
diagram 2b
James Christine May 2014
alien in a fish bowl.
speckled with shame
squirming under
the microscope
of
speculation and
imposed so-called
'morals' of
those who
take it upon
themselves to
regulate
others.

jaws disengage to drop further still
to the ground.
eyes shot out needles
to pierce every exposed
inch of
flesh on
my body.

eyes wide
swell like an ocean wave
from all sides.

there is a permanent furrow in my brow.
lips downturned at the slightest
potential threat.

at 4 i was invincible
at 5 i could fly
at 6 i could talk to wolves
at 7 i was one with nature
at 8 i drew shamelessly
at 9 i was a trapeze artist
at 10 an archaeologist
at 11 i braided grass
at 12 i crushed berries to make paint
at 13 i died a little inside.
and a little more each year thereafter.
haven't written in a long while. this is a collection of thought/idea fragments.  the original has images to accompany them.
Mar 2014 · 2.2k
Flush
James Christine Mar 2014
rainbow-blooded life forms be ware.
we, who season the earth.
we, the cultivators of spices -******, clove, cinnamon, saffron.

they, who currycomb the earth.
they, who purify, sanitize, sterilize, absolve
destruct

we, the corrupt.
James Christine Feb 2014
setting the stage:*  *an elementary school art classroom of apprx. 20 first graders.
At the front stands the art teacher, and nearby, the art teacher's apprehensive assistant (who, as we will later learn, also happens to be her lover).  Both teacher and assistant sport short, shaved heads and don 'mens' apparel.


'Friends, today we have an assistant  here to help us finish our clay masks.  Some of you know may know Coach L from soccer. Let's give her a warm hello.'
'Hi Coach L!' Twenty first graders scream.
What ensues? a result of the fact that children are naturally curious beings.

'ms. k, coach L is your son.  right?'         
 no, she is four years younger, but i am pretty sure four-year-olds do not
 yet have the ability to procreate
          
'she your daughter then?'                                                  ­           
 still no
'is that your brother?'                                   
 my brother lives in Wisconsin
'that ur sister?'                   
i don't have a sister
'ms. k. y'all twins?'                                                          ­   
i don't have a twin
'she ur mom?'                                                  
my mom has curly hair like me
'your dad?'                                                            ­       
 my dad is much taller
'she your friend?'                                                         ­            
...........................kinda like that
'you her aunt?'                                                           ­               
'her uncle?'                                                          ­                  
'her grandma?'
'well that's ur cousin then.'          
'cuz you both have short hair and those baggy
clothes and those holes in your ears and
that same tattoo on your wrist.'                       
                                  ­                                            
no, and for the record she's not my uncle's brother's son's monkey twice-removed either                          
                                             ­                                           
'i may not know what she is, but i know what she absolutely couldn't be.
she absolutely, most cetainly, never-ever could be your lover because my understanding is she's a she and you're a she.  
....or she's a he and you're a he.
but either way that don't add up.'
i never 'blame' my students for being curious. once they form a bond with me, they're totally okay with how i dress, act, and who i decide to be with. the problem lies in  the media, parents, and other societal structures.
James Christine Feb 2014
carry my joy on the left.                                      carry my pain on the right.
                                    the devil collects it with a grin,
                                         our love in a ball of yarn.
[and] lavender ribbons of rain sang,
ridding my heart of mortal fight.
                        so try[ing] to be somebody, so try[ing] to feel somebody,
                        so try[ing] to leave somebody, so hard to be somebody
      [so] rock me mama like the wind and the rain,
      rock me mama like a southbound train.
                                    and if you're still breathing, you're the lucky one[s],
                                'cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs.
i selected some lines i enjoy from various songs and mashed them together to see what would happen.  lyrical credit to:
camera obscura
bjork
cocorosie
justin vernon
old crow medicine show
daughter
Feb 2014 · 657
OhCalmDescend
James Christine Feb 2014
i am fighting a disease,
so i became a ******.
my drug of choice: just to run.
to run each day with an unfeigned grit.

the medicine for my mind.
no need for a doctor to fill the prescription.
my morphine.
my high.
ease my anxious mind
and uplift my heavy heart.
calm floods my insides,
immersed in quiet rapture.
****** exhaustion settles in
and silences the disease-
those incessant, enslaving urges that regulate my every move
are replaced by stillness.
this
is bliss.
this one is personal/literal...first time working through some of my OCD via poetry.
James Christine Feb 2014
Do rage, and imagine the earth and the rulers saying, break away from us.
Laugh.
Then speak pleasure.
My art I shall give for the earth.
My second attempt at Blackout Poetry.  I did this one in a bible, Book of Psalms.
If you're curious, the original psalm reads:
Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?
2 The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord, and against his anointed, saying,
3 Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.
4 He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the Lord shall have them in derision.
5 Then shall he speak unto them in his wrath, and vex them in his sore displeasure.
6 Yet have I set my king upon my holy hill of Zion.
7 I will declare the decree: the Lord hath said unto me, Thou art my Son; this day have I begotten thee.
8 Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.
James Christine Feb 2014
setting the stage:* driving through this tiny southern town i call home, i saw a man.
out the window i saw him, mid 60's, walking up to a small white box-shaped house.
a word, with no obvious association to this man in particular, came to thought.
the word: complacent.
i proceeded to conjure up an entirely (insert appropriate emotion here) story about this man.  
(the story of this man being a symbol for [what i believe to be the majority] of humankind.)
the entirely (insert appropriate emotion here) story goes:

his entire adult life, the man has spent each day working hard at a job not his passion .
this job has enabled him to provide food and shelter to his family for 40 years.  
as a young person, his face lit up when he spoke of his dreams and aspirations.
the light has since gone out.
he is not unhappy, no. (complacent)  
he has accepted this is the way of life.
he works 8-5pm, gets home and watches a bit of television, eats supper with his family, perhaps smokes a pipe, goes to sleep.
and repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat,repeat...for forty years.  
he never gets angry, never raises his voice or fist.

now here is me.  
my life is an emotional rollercoaster.  propelled by my heart. one second of blissed-out lightness is followed by deep-gut sadness is followed by adrenaline-fired passion is followed by bone-hollowness is followed by complete calm is followed by intense panic... and on and on for 25 years.

complacency is something creative minds envy during the hardest times.
the days of existential crisis
the sleepless panicked nights of 'what am i doing with my life
the tender kisses transformed to screaming matches with our respective beloved.

i need something to wake up for each morning.
i need art like my lungs oxygen.
i need feeling too much like my body blood.
and in the hard times, if i were to try complacency for awhile,
surely i would cease to function.  

and surely a deep-hearted sadness consumed me as i thought of the 'man' and of all of the people living perfectly complacently on this earth.

and then again, is there no admiration to be found in this 'man' who has worked so hard, poured some much sweat and blood into a job not his passion so that he can provide for his family?  the tears swell in my eyes as i type these last lines.
not really am poem, but i wrote this to try and work out my thoughts on something i struggle with terribly...i would deeply appreciate yours.
Feb 2014 · 831
Each Rib Dissolved
James Christine Feb 2014
expansive untold body revealed in moonlit splendor.
obscure and nebulous.
seductive and serene.
offers relief from the swirling, ever-whirling thoughts in my head.
if i were to desend, and beneath each crest remain, i could escape
existence.

my eyes: see nothing, yet see everything.
my arms: reach out and feel nothing, yet each fingertip electric.
thighs, knees, calves, ankles, feet, remain solid and strong.
propel me forward sans fatigue.
they are present, powerful.
carry me.
carry me.
these other parts, they are at home here.
my back softens, each rib *dissolved.
Another with tag-along artwork.  original @ http://biodegradableglitter.deviantart.com/
Feb 2014 · 373
Certain Electric Towns
James Christine Feb 2014
live
experiment outside your head
an ear slightly listening
to your own part
your eyes see
but barely
certain electric towns
radiate warmth
time can help you haul away dirt
First attempt at a blackout poem, it has some imagery to go along with it.  I realize posting a blackout poem out of its original context (newspaper in this case) does limit interpretation.  See the original at: http://biodegradableglitter.deviantart.com/.
Feb 2014 · 530
Dearest Gender-Confused,
James Christine Feb 2014
I am writing to tell you who I am.
I am all kinds of glitter and rainbows and unicorns wrapped up in human form.

I hike, I bike, and I fix stuff with my tools.
I cook, I clean, and I follow the rules.
I paint my nails and change the oil.
I am a friend-compassionate and loyal.

I like pink, blue, green
and everything in-between.

I wear my hair short because I like it that way.
I have tattoos and piercings- I am not cliche.

I feel **** as **** in lipstick, high heels, and thigh-highs.
I feel **** as **** in suspenders, suits, and  bowties.

I am certain of who I am, I have proved.
It is you, my friend, who is the one confused.
(don't try to put me in a box, life isn't black and white, all right?)

With Love,
(insert name here)
-written with love for all of my genderbending, transgender, genderqueer, and otherwise- identifying friends.
Feb 2014 · 322
Bearfoot Baby
James Christine Feb 2014
baby feet inked and printed
baby do you know this paper was once a tree?  i touched your feet to it and it breathed life into your soul

(many years later)
bare feet meet the earth beneath  
in patterned timing
breath ah
breath ah
breath ah
breath ah

life flows in
through the souls
of
barefeet.
breath ah
breath ah
breath ah
breath ah

bokomaru.
the mingling of soles.
breath ah
breath ah
breath ah
breath ah

here, i am animal.
hear me roar.
bare teeth.
bear feet
baby.
thanks mr. kurt vonnegut for the concept of 'bokomaru'
Feb 2014 · 415
I Don't 'Do' Shoes
James Christine Feb 2014
how do you expect me to
be grounded
if i can't feel it beneath me?
James Christine Feb 2014
warm maple
syrup y sweet
sugar cane sap
tobogganing down your barbed white
rib cage d
birds croon no sweeter a
tune d
up broke down jalopy such as i to make sweet
cream between your wet
heat ed discussion of
how much is too much?
after all, diabetes is a reality for many.
thanks for the title, miss Barbara O'Mary of the Times Change Press collection of poetry 'This Woman'
James Christine Feb 2014
take hand in mine
look square in the eye and say:
you've been quiet all night. yesterday too.
baby, i love you and no matter what you have to say
i will love you.

squirming, trying to  be willed out of skin.
apprehensively opening mouth to **** in a sharp breath.
and they say:
baby i... baby i... baby i just HATE MY *****. and i have been so scared to tell you because i know how much you love them and i love you so much that i just couldn't bear making you sad and it's not that i wanna be a 'boy' or anything like that i just hate my *****. they're not pretty like yours. my ******* aren't centered and they point out like an extra set of arms from my body so maybe if i had beautiful ***** like yours then, then i would like them.
pausing to **** in a second jagged breath.
continue to hold quaking hand, gripping skin a ghastly white.
i say:
baby, i know.  i know you hate your *****.
and that's okay with me.
as long as it's okay with you
that i love them so much.
deal?

heavy exhale, hue returning:
*deal.
for my partner, with love. may your mammories always bring me the greatest of joy.
Feb 2014 · 388
2 Truths and A Lie
James Christine Feb 2014
it is unbearably human to have thoughts of feeling insanely inadequate.

it is within one's own power to change self-depricating thoughts.

one's insecurities are a reflection of everyone else's realities.
James Christine Feb 2014
here i am in a  wooden box nailed shut.

*won't you please lend me your hammer?
Feb 2014 · 299
On the Human Condition
James Christine Feb 2014
on days like this i find myself needing humans.
surrounded by beings, yet never a time when i feel more distant.
human beings hurt me
a lot of the time.
but only because i let them.
i am human.

my humaness hurts me
more of the time.
Feb 2014 · 381
To a Child
James Christine Feb 2014
A Child .
Tender
And
Fresh.

Unmarked by time
Markings of time take on many forms
A scar from the time you went on a family vacation to the mountains and you fell and a giant rock got stuck in your knee.
Creases in your forehead from fretting over how you are going to pay this month’s rent.

Tired eyes.

Revisit the Child.
Tender
And
Fresh.

Feel the warmth of their body as they lovingly place their delicate tender hands
so carefully on each of your marked cheeks.
Their weight in your lap keeps you grounded, keeps you present.  

So to be in the presence of a child
Is a brilliant thing.
Feb 2014 · 287
(in)significance.
James Christine Feb 2014
let’s talk about the universe.
insignificance
can either make you feel
very
significant
or it can
**not.
Feb 2014 · 9.6k
Entitlement
James Christine Feb 2014
I began

as an accident,  but what I know is no accident.

I sprouted up

in rural America as a white girl-child so what I learned was learned through white girl-child eyes.

I grew to become

a liberal white ***** woman so what I perceive is through liberal white ***** woman’s eyes.

I thrive

as a creator, a dreamer, an artist, so what I experience is experienced as a creator, a dreamer, an artist.

Who are you to say what I merit?

Who are you?

You began.


You sprouted up.


You grew to become.


[I hope] You thrive.


Who am I to say what you deserve?

Who am I to say?
I am me to say.

I am not to say
for you.

You are not to say
for me.

For you are to say
for you.

and I

for me.

And that,
dear friends

should be no privilege.
James Christine Feb 2014
Cursor. Stare vacantly back at me.  A pair of rough hands scrape against cheeks.  My own.  
A faint yet familiar soreness in the back of the throat.  
Christmas lights procure rings of color on the walls and make still for an instant
mounting apprehension.

Count the days.

Recount.

Plan each day, hour by hour. Compelled to use them to their fullest potential.
Productivity.
Type without fear. Without concern for that looming pair of eyes to examine this.

A verbalization of [my own dark thoughts] “It’s not good enough.” “ It’s garbage."

Jagged hands. Jagged hands to delicate hairs on the back of the neck.  Above ear and pushed from forehead.  Soreness in throat keeps me [grounded].  
Soreness in heart sends me to dream.  
Soft groan escapes a pair of lips as a pair of eyes find a likeness captured in pixels.  
Close it shut put it down look away deep breath in.

Distract.

Distract with learning.
The inextinguishable desire to know, to see, to understand [this]
existence.

Will one day I allow for eyes not my own to bear witness to this love poem?
This love poem to life, both in a particular and universal sense.

With timid hands and trembling insides I surrender

*my words.

— The End —