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Christina Chircop Poem
Our veins are veins in leaves,
and even if you hate them,
without them, the world would wither.
Our scars are maps of storms we survived,
and even if you wish they weren’t there,
they trace the paths that made us strong.
Our tears are rain,
and even if they fall too freely,
they flow through the rivers that make the earth bloom.
Our freckles are the speckled moon,
and even if you wish they would vanish,
the night would be empty without them.
Our hair is a field of wild grass,
sometimes tangled, sometimes soft,
and even if you fight it,
it grows freely, reaching for light,
holding the small storms and sunlight of your life.
Our hands are rough,
our nails chipped, our knuckles bent,
and even if you hide them,
they build, they hold, they reach.
Our lips are dry,
chapped, sometimes trembling,
and even if you hate them,
they speak our truth, carry our laughter, and taste life.
Our eyes bear the weight of endless nights,
the bags under them formed by studying, by striving, by thinking too much,
and even if you see only fatigue,
they have witnessed dreams, hope, and all the worlds you’ve imagined.
They say our bodies are too thin, too fat, too soft, too strong,
and even if the world tells us to change, to cut, to sculpt, to mask with plastic,
we do not need to.
They move, they hold, they love, they are home.
We are perfect..
Every vein, scar, tear, freckle, strand, hand, lip, eye, and body
is exactly what makes us alive.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
She's so perfect, thin and tall,
She's so perfect, feet so small.
Her hair so long, and lashes too,
As if they’ve all been stuck with glue.
Her lips so full, her cheekbones high,
Every curve precise, no flaw to spy.
Her nails so long, sharp as a knife,
Polished to shine, the height of life.
She's so perfect… or is she?
That plastic smile won’t let her be.
A factory doll behind those eyes,
Every detail copied, her soul disguised.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
She's a rose,
Beauty in every dose.
With petals of patience
And a heart full of care,
Don't mistake her kindness
For weakness to spare.
For no rose is made
Just for the gaze,
Like every rose,
She has thorns in her ways.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
Knock. Knock. Knock.
An intruder inside my mind, knocking endlessly.
A fuse burning down in the dark, reminding me that every second counts.
Every spark that drops is another chance to study, to work, to do more.
It pulls at my nerves like the strings of a guitar that
instead of creating a beautiful melody, cry out in pain.
It washes me in burning gall,
gurgling up my throat,
crawling its way upward until I can't breathe.
Like a book without an author, it writes itself in my head: scenarios, stories, things yet to come that I never asked for, never wanted to see.
And then it starts, questioning me over and over:
What if I mess up?
What if I fall behind?
What if I try my best,
and it still isn't enough?
What if I'm a sponge, soaking up knowledge,
pressure... everything, until I can't hold it anymore?
And with time, like a sponge that has absorbed too much
I will overflow, and everything I worked for will spill out and disappear.
Then they arrive...
The holidays, when mornings no longer lead to classrooms,
when days are no longer pages left to complete, but pages left open,
carrying nothing but the gentle weight of themselves.
And the pest that used to hammer relentlessly through my skull
realizes that it's time to take a break from
pulling, ripping, slicing through thought after thought.
Like a sponge, we spend our lives trying to absorb the world,
collecting every drop of expectation,
every hint of worry,
thinking that holding it all is what makes us worthy.
But a sponge is not meant to hold onto water forever.
If you never learn how to empty yourself,
if you never learn how to let go of what you carry,
the world will eventually squeeze you dry.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
Do you even see what you’re doing?
I am the soil beneath your careless feet,
the oceans you choke with plastic lies.
Your rivers scream in acid pools,
your skies suffocate under gray blankets.
You stack towering bricks,
of marble, steel and glass like Lego to prove you’ve won
but money will not save you
when the seas rise and the winds tear through your walls.
Do you feel nothing?
Do you not see the forests gasp for breath,
the ice caps bleed into endless waters,
the animals vanish while you cover every inch of grass with rubble?
Your so called progress is a graveyard
and you are digging your own tomb.
I am not just your home, I am your mirror.
You are fools of greed
and when the end comes,
it will not be me who suffers
it will be you.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
Life, you are an illusion, a trick that convinces people they own what they only borrow.
You fool them into believing they can gain more, build more, become more, as if any of it follows them past the edge.
Even those who stack riches high enough to block the sun still cannot carry a single thing into what comes after.
They spend everything chasing you; calling it success, calling it meaning.
But I see what they refuse to admit.
They fear me because I end the game they think they are winning.
I end judgment, I end noise, I end everything that pretended to matter.
And in the end, I do not take from them. I simply show them they were never holding anything at all.
So tell me, Life… why do they hate me, and not you?
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
The newborn cries, the old man sighs,
The same faint light is in their eyes.
The journey ends where it began,
The tiny babe, the fading man.
The baby starts in nappies, new,
A fragile life with much to do.
The elder closes out the years,
In nappies as the ending nears.
The toddler takes a shaky stride,
With parents watching right beside.
The elder struggles just to stand,
And reaches for a helping hand.
The infant babbles, learning speech,
To grasp the words just out of reach.
The senior tries to mouth a word,
But leaves the sentence lost, unheard.
The helpless baby needs our grace,
To lift them in a warm embrace.
The helpless elder needs that care,
When heavy years are hard to bear.
The cradle meets the rocking chair.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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Christina Chircop Poem
You are the sun,
lighting the places
I cannot reach,
warming the parts of me
that would otherwise stay cold.
And I am the moon,
plain and dull on my own,
only shining because
I have your light to carry.
But you need me too.
Because when the sun
meets the moon,
something extraordinary happens.
An eclipse.
For a moment,
the whole world looks up.
Not to see the sun,
not to see the moon,
but to see our eclipse,
something neither of us could make alone.
Copyright © Christina Chircop | Year Posted 2026
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