Your fingers have dipped in starlight, and
My eyes glow like the moon
And what you've painted on me, your canvas,
Has made my every nerve end twitch
Trembling with anxious, drunk-love excitement.
Sandman's heavy seeds have been sown,
And weigh down eyelids with their tempting fruit.
My fingers are dimmer
And I softly worry your shirt between them
Staring at a space behind my eyes

the bass and horn and drums blare
all in a sudden wave of noise that ebbs
and flows
washing over the barbican center in resounding and quieting washes of color
and sound and music and flavor and passion and life
and reverberating through my bones
the geeks and nerds around me get up to retreat from the music or else head closer
the ones in front of the band whoop and shout
as the guy by the mike announces unintelligibly
perhaps the song and band
but will anyone remember once the passion and music is over?
no matter
all i care about right now is the faint sushi like taste in my mouth, of cucumbers and tuna, from my sandwich
and the disappearing,
fading buzz from the back of my plastic seat
as the music and the noise from the band
ever so slowly
quickly
dies

some days

some days i wake up
feeling warm and lovely and happy
feeling whole and right in who i am and what i appear to be

some days i go to bed
barely holding my eyes open against the weight of dreams
barely staying in reality a moment longer

some days i want to create
a dream of imagines on paper
and spill the ink of my mind out onto the world,
eagerly showing the creations of my mind and what excites me as far as
what i can imagine and bring out of the ethereal into the only slightly more tangible inner chambers of my mind palace

other days
i want to destroy
to tear, end to end, the world i have created in my mind and every piece of it i have brought into existence
to shred myself to pieces to rid the universe of such and inadequate creature as myself who dares feel more comfortable as a fluid being, more free to explore and weave in and out of the norms set by society

and then i fall, weak and hollow, to my knees,
full of life and brightness that has been pressed to aside by the gaping holes of heaving singularities within my gut and soul
and i feel dark
and wrong
and numb

but then every so often i get a spark of light in the inky dark of me

and it flutters close

circling my form slowly and giving out the slightest bit of light and warmth

sometimes this first Good Thought or Good Feeling will be crushed
snatched from the air in the claws of a demonic and wild gargoyle

but even so, one by one the light spots will gently blanket the gargoyles,
forcing them to lie in wait once more

for who can fight the gentle persistence of a butterfly