madame periwinkle's quest of (not for) solitude

Sand beneath me, crunching like nails across a chalkboard
Something tickling my feet
                       can’t be the waves because they’re ten-thousand miles down
my body  
         as small as a grain of sand.
Floating
Rolling
             on a bed of waves
Feel like it’s an amusement park that stretches down the continental slope
trickling down and down to the realigning crystals.
         Volcanic bubbles creating the land for us to wash away.
And somehow
             the thought of erosion being a part of the cycle seems like a new and logical idea
                   in this world where everyone’s trying to feel a part.
                                                                              And play one too.
The world’s stage is too small for some characters,
The ones you complain are side stepping.
                         Watch out!
There might be a ghost in a blue dress dancing on the gates
But I guess it’s better than a devil
             praying that you will be the teenage faust.
And what would you sell your soul for?
a Jimi Hendrix album?
a pair of glass slippers?
maybe even a purple people eater,
          Because everyone’s got a dream.
          Does yours start with a beat?
          When you’re tapping your feet
        does your heart feel light enough to fly
   out of the window
   tumbling through canyons in a Dali painting.
And when the world gets too bright,
   do you have to put on your rose colored glasses
   just to dull your senses?
We all have days like that.
The ones where the Mad Hatter glows purple
   and the back door seems a lot safer than the stairway
                             the one that never leads to heaven
But you can fly,
So who cares about all the fields of sunflowers
     you only wanted the seed
     Couldn’t take the time to nuzzle one of the yellow petals.
     Couldn’t take the time to notice where the word sun comes from.
The yellow that’s in her eyes,
When she looks good enough to curl up in on a cool spring day
      Just like the blacksnake that finds the warm spot on the pavement.
           Where did you put your fangs?
But here I am now, far out on the shores of summer
out of even your rattler’s reach
feeling like a blacksnake myself
the sun stimulating my skin, until I can feel the melanin shouting to get out.
       It just wants some attention.
Only, please not from the eyes like a frightened bourgeoisie
           storming the Bastille
           only this time asking for shelter.
But are we insane to wonder
    if it’s safer on the inside.
          And I’m busy screaming:   
             come protect me from the outside world
             because that’s enough to make me dangerous.
Bouncing hydrogen atoms waiting to be ignited
And you offer to light my cigarette.
               I tell you, kind sir,
               Just wrap me up in a book.
               The words should keep me warm and the pages should keep me occupied.
                     And then I won’t blow up.
I’ll slither along over she seashells waiting for another day
     wishing for sharks teeth, mother of pearl, and physics books written by poets.