It’s all Choreography, you see,
How I know just what to say,
How I smile at your life,
My enthusiasm about your new boo.
Don’t worry,
Don’t worry,
Don’t worry your perfect little head,
About my loss,
About my body,
About my hair.

It’s all Choreography, you see,
I’ll probably tell you about the one good day,
Some award I won for being nice,
And spew some pseudo-intelligent *******
But I know
Oh, I know
I know all too well you’ll see through me

It’s all Choreography, you see,
I’ve been training since I was five,
It’s meticulously planned
And executed flawlessly as
Warm hugs, laughs, kind eyes and sweet, sweet words.

It’s all Choreography, I know
I’d rather do this,
Because,
I dance alone anyway!

Both sending letters,
they tore their love apart—
each line like a "don’t leave me,"
they looked like real love letters.

Reading between the lines,
you’d see who played the part.
The strange thing is, the culprit
was not of either heart.

Jealousy, the silent fire,
gave context and reasons,
possessing their prey,
it moved without control.

Can love be found again,
by one who shared the blame?
Can a fractured soul find wholeness
through forgiveness, love, and name?

Your sorrowed letters shake me,
each farewell cuts me through.
Some of us never get letters—
not of friendship, nor of loss,
much less of love from you.

Los dos enviando cartas
rompían su relación,
parecían un no me dejes
reales cartas de amor.

Mirando entre palabras
verías al culpable,
lo extraño del culpable
ninguno de ese amor.

Los celos crean
contexto y razón,
poseyendo a sus víctimas
accionan planes sin control.

¿Será posible volver al amor
siendo un coautor de tal error?
¿un espíritu quebrado unirá sus trozos
con palabras de amor y perdón?

Conmociona mi espíritu
tus tristes cartas de adiós,
algunos no recibimos cartas
ni por quiebre, ni amistad,
menos siquiera por amor.

I crave validation.
I want—no, need it like a lifeline,
Like a child in the face of a sweet treat,
Like a bird to a worm writhing from the ground,
Like a starving man at the mere sight of food,
Like a wolf to whoever dares harm its pack.
It sears through my body like white, burning pain,
It rips me of my sight to consequence,
It’s a drowning poison, yes.
But how am I supposed to let go?
How am I supposed to not look at any sort of praise and think,
God, I want that.
It tears me apart like a knife does in snow,
Jelly,
         Water,
                     Air,
But I would be a liar to say that isn’t what I want.
Is it a fault of mine that I desire with all my ****** up being
for something that isn’t a momentary
“Okay,”
              “Alright,”
                      ­           “Good job,”
                                                       “You’re fine,”
It’s not, it’s not okay or alright or good or fine,
I need someone to scream at me that what I’ve done is perfect,
More than great,
More than amazing,
More than wonderful, or spectacular,
More than perfect.
And if I can’t have that,
Then at least yell at me that what I’ve done is nothing,
At least beat the ****** **** out of me
And tell me to go **** myself.
Because that hurts less than
A bunch of half-hearted responses that
I never know how to interpret over text,
And never know how to comprehend in speech.
Just spare me the misery, that’s all I need.
I’d prefer you be cruel than make me guess
What you’re thinking.
Because it always eventually occurs to me that
Neither what you’re thinking or saying
Are the validation I crave.
So just save us all the trouble
And put me out of my ****** misery
Already.
Because if I’m not everything,
Then what can I be but nothing?

Oh God, how long until my woes
Transfigure into peace?
Until the violent storms inside my skull
Will finally cease?
Until the gaping emptiness
I feel beneath my ribs
Is filled with warmth and joyousness?
That's all I plead You give!

Around me I see people full
With water, meat and wine.
I see them eat together --
Oh, how carefree they all dine!
When hunger hasn't gripped my gut,
I've gorged on rotten meat.
And when my throat has not been dry,
Vinegar's been my treat.

Please give me, Lord, a future hope
That isn't a mirage.
I look for peace, but pain attacks
In relentless barrage.
My spirit grumbles -- do take ear
And help my soul to thrive.
Mend this broke heart and give me strength
To want to be alive.

He preferred unwashed and touched skins
I was ripe and fresh, with my green leaf
Shiny as if someone polished me against their polo shirt.

He loved texture, bruises, and discoloration
while I was smooth, absolutely bump free.

No patience left in him, he needed to gorge his hunger,
biting down and ripping it's other half trailed with a string of dripping saliva.

It wasn't a want, but a must.

Worms were wriggling out from the rotten core begging to escape from his monstrous pointed teeth.

He preferred them just the way they were, abandoned, unsure, insecure.

He however never preferred me; smothering myself of perfection to be picked from all hands who only ever picked the others...

Perfect apples can't always be picked up.

I now pull back the curtain
to show you this painting
as a very special exception -
my wife, she died young

Since her death she only smiles
at me, you can see it
So sweet, passionately, she looks
Her eyes seem to be thirsty

also for the painter
that is quite clear
She was always very happy
to see others

Everything and everyone charmed
her and received her gratitude
What difference could I make?
And it got worse and worse

I had to restrain her
and then all smiles stopped
Now only in this painting
Only as a painting

I hate this hunger, gnawing loud,
a whisper turned into a crowd.
I write for peace, for truth, for light—
yet crave the echo in the night.

A thousand eyes, a million hearts,
I want the world to know my art.
Though kindness rains and love is near,
still something selfish stirs in fear.

Why isn’t enough just enough?
Why does praise feel like fragile fluff?
Why do I ache for louder cheers,
when gentle voices ring so clear?

I count the stars, but chase the sun—
forgetting how the moon has won
my poems over with her grace,
while I still seek a grander place.

I loathe this thirst I cannot quench,
this greedy pull, this inner wrench.
Yet deep inside, I see the root—
a child who just wants to feel absolute.

But let me learn to love this pace,
to write for stillness, not the race.
To hold each word, each soul, each view,
and know—enough is something true.