Dancers must have two extreme qualities
Intense desire , gritty fortitude , and raw courage .
. . . one two three , OK  , dancers must have three extreme qualities .

Dancers actually do break a leg upon the stage

At parties they are the flight of the hummingbirds . Amazing what they do .

Their tight limber bodies often make me wonder how I would do in bed with them

My ambition was always tied to a rope that held me back
Because  when I danced (after twenty-four bottles of beer)
It was on my face I always fell flat

For the very first time
I trusted freely
Loved universally
Spoke in open truths
I believed a heart
And words that moved me
When my cracks grew large
And my flaws were unflattering
Words bit into flesh
Backed across the line of beauty
Where distance its kinder
Than reality
When all perception is clouded clear
For the very first time
I trusted freely
and I learned quickly
As I am
I will not be loved

Who/what comes in your mind first thing in the morning?*

Obviously, it's not me.

Rock-a-bye baby in tear soaked pillow tops
momma don't care and daddy don't try and if you shall cry no one will see,
no one will believe, someone as sweet as can possibly be could be so far apart her from deepest needs
They pull it they tug, they shred it apart
can you pick up the pieces dismantled on the floor
far apart from the world
oh pretty baby pick your head up
hopes not lost
hold you're heart together with string and lost dreams
hold your head up
don't show the darkness in side
rock-a-bye baby right back to sleep

Falling out of love:
Back to reality, oh
there goes gravity

He was my gravity.
Does my gravity miss me?
(I chose to let go)

It’s a marvel—
how the human heart
can continue to want that same something
that so willingly smashed it to a thousand pieces.
It’s a wonder how it still beats
as it watches that something
meticulously plaster each of those
one thousand fragments onto its
mural of damaged conquests.

But the heart is in good company, I guess.
At least its own pieces have a commonality
with its surrounding neighborly shards.
Together they can be sharp and exude mystery—
no longer desired to be touched or examined
by the pairs of eyes that closely study their edges.

That something? He steps back.
With a grin ear to ear, he
enjoys the whole of his piecemeal creation.
With his beautiful hands,
he forces all of them to fit together,
Reminiscing as he watches them dry,
cementing them to memory,
telling his tales of pushes and pulls,
of warmth and chills.
Damage, his only true medium,
he finds much easier to manipulate than oils or pastels,
and that something, he is a master of his craft.

He contorts each of us into his own work of art,
fixed for the public eye with sticky regret
and dried by the countless nights of cold wonder.
And we wait, patiently, until his craftsmanship folds.
Until the plaster chips and crumbles.
Each of our pieces falling to the ground
in the hopes that someone will
pick us up, pocket us,
and appreciate the sullen beauty
in something that once was whole.