Touch your skin as if it was the last meal you'll eat;

take your fingers and stretch them out as if you were complete.

Analyze each root, dirt lines coming out of the soil, and shell.

But, look deeper than just the bark that covers the meat like an eggshell.

Take that hand and put the other arm out, trace your frame;

mosaic of your bosom pumps life just a few centimeters away from a claim.

Cells work their own individual tasks in perfect sink.

It's similar to something that makes me think.

Colorful, sweet, sour, ripe, young, old, diverse; perfection.

Minuscule veins that hold your body together are seeds of flavorful imperfection;

born from a mother that bred us with the riches of blood giving souls that are acute.

Take the time to appreciate your body; kiss it and show compassion, dainty as fruit.

Women, men, children, fogey, white, colored, or a being with a sense of compassion.

No matter how thick covered, reachable, climbable, simple, and exotic; they all take action.

Sugars, vitamins, nutrients, fibers, and carbohydrates involve the meat in bonds.

Tree that once we came from has made the flavor of life burst with culture and bottomless ponds.

Country, ethnicity, religion, sexually, gender, stage of life is born with each seed planted by ancient breeds.

Mother has chosen a selection of substances that applies to each and every one of us; the sad thing is that it doesn't prevent the growth of weeds.

The mother gives and the mother grows; when ripe and ready, the fruit of the tree falls.

Women and girls are born to give life to the unknown and protect the unborn in warm baths.

Deep down a nest of soft, bubbly roots are the pinnacle of human creation and growth.

Earth and women have a connection of fullness that's only described as an oath.

A woman, no matter what, is a creation that can't be replaced, but it's always misplaced.

Weeds wrap the mother's children in seamless stereotypes, they only care what's under the waist.

Papaya, watermelon, mango, pawpaw, apricots, durian, honeydew, atemoya, breadfruit...

The body is just a shell, sweetness and sourness dress in a powerful suit.

Passion fruit, pecan, kiwi, pequi, pine apple, pomato, mamey, rollinia, strawberry...

Dress, pants, shorts, skirts, jeans, and leggings; model those beautiful legs, scarry or hairy.

Tangelo, oroblanco, feijoa, lemon, yuzu, mangaba, maypop, miracle fruit, sea grape...

Love everything about a woman;  spectacular skin, eyes, arms, body, and shape.

The mother gives and the mother grows; when ripe and ready, the fruit of the tree falls.

Men and boys are bred to protect and conserve justice, with their hearts they break down walls.

Strength doesn't only pair up with fists and brutal force; but with courage, respect, and loyalty.

Masculinity, sadly, drives men insane for acceptance: they hide their true selves from realty.

Nurture your love, woman or man, don't feel ashamed because your debt is with the earth.

Kiss, hug, touch, admirer all that the tree provides; remember that power doesn't equal worth.

Acai, calamansi, cashew apple, banana, fig, huito, prickly pear, leucaena, loganberry...

Break out of the normal state called "man" and paint a new picture that's ordinary.

White grapes, dates, lablab, yellow plum, tamarind, oil palm, naranjilla, saguaro, orange...

Climb the tallest mountain and break your soul as each hand calluses with a stone, pay homage.

Cherry, kapok, wampee, dead man's finger, wax gourd, olive, nere, manoa, nutmeg...

Chained to the ground by rose thorns that dig the flesh with poison, be brave and don't beg.

The mother gives and the mother grows; when ripe and ready, the fruit of the tree falls.

Ethnicity and culture bloom form a flower that's only seen as "ornamental", so Baudelaire recalls.

Dance, sing, and handcraft the feelings obtained by the songs of those colorful leaves that fell from the mother tree.

Brain expands with the divergent adrenaline that makes your framework fill with sparks and steam from tea;

drumming beat of the nucleus races heat into the plasma, making it clash with the marrow of a bone that can only move if shaken off.

Hands dipped in kaleidoscopic earth colors draw history diversities from the toes to the hair, no one can take it off.

Acerola, black apple, ilama, guarana, pear, phalsa, pigface, wild mangosteen, betel nut...

From a flower the fruit of the world grows in many times of warmth, it seems uncut.

Cempedak, persimmon, jocote, cucumber, honeysuckle, jujube, pomegranate, quince, riberry...

Mother grows so much and its offspring have gone rancid with self-hate, the only thing it knows now is to carry.

Snowberry, tangelo, oregon grape, neem, lapsi, vanilla, duke fruit, guava, hawthorn berry...

Smoke up the air with negative spiritual incense, fill the crystal tears with poison, kill the earth until its final yearn.

The mother gives and the mother grows; when ripe and ready, the fruit of the tree falls.

The sweetness has crashed into a pit of human souls that only live and grow in walls.

If people were bred by the earth, then: "Why do the songs of war crash through my doors?"