they're really going now
stuck in my legs
my fingers
there's bees and butterflies and moths
beating their wings
desperate to get out

if they get out
I can paint them
make room for more
these ones in my head
look at the ideas

god they're beautiful
if only I could catch them
but they flit away too fast
so the painting blur
mashed into a conglomeration of colors

the buzzing turn to music
flying away delicately
my fingers grow heavy
and they escape

the only ones I catch are dead