Extend your hands 

and receive everything I have.

No holding back,

not pushing anything away. 

The scars, wrinkles, and calluses on your palms 

reflect my elemental gifts smelted in the furnace of your spontaneous creation.

These heirlooms are memorialized and revived through every 

stroke, grasp, and press, like revenants of a timeless, spaceless wire


spiraling and oscillating between cycles of creation and destruction, 

of life and death.
 

Out of me,

into you.
 

The emptiness upon your hands cradles 

the everything of me beyond the illusion of possession.
 

My knowledge and experience, 

like a line between two points,

reify into trigonal planes of 

existence, nonexistence, and truth 

when supported by the foundation of your hands, 

strengthened by the fire of your core.
 

I give you everything, and nothing,

and we all receive life.
 

Someone suggested I write the worst poem I’ve ever written as a way to overcome an aversion to my own artistic vulnerability. While I don’t actually believe this is the worst poem I’ve ever written, eliminating the need to produce something “good” put me back in touch with an inner space where untethered creativity and radical honesty flow naturally. Freeing myself from an attachment to a qualitative outcome allowed me to overcome a self-imposed creative bottleneck and express these sensations, which I received during a meditation on embodying acceptance.