dancer

I cannot stop the persistent feet
Of the little dancer in my head
Adagio! Arabesque! Plié!
Sir Cavalier. Leading and pushing.
He treads on the right side of my brain
Doing tap dances and pirouettes
Fucking with my intuition, my emotions.
He saunters to the left. Gracefully.
There he moonwalks and shimmies
Distracting me from logic and reason.
Leaving behind footprints and scuff marks.
Permanent reminders of an unpredictable dance
Others cannot see his leaps and jumps.
Cannot hear the constant beating of drums.
In vain desperation to stop his performance,
I try to smoke him out.
With a clove. Or two. Or three.
Or maybe I could drown him?
In a glass. Or two. Or six.
Perhaps a scalding shower?
Another feministic diatribe?
Soothing songs of melancholy?
Meaningless fiction books?
Doubtful. Fleeting distractions.
It's all bullshit anyways.
I suppose... I could just run?
Doing my own pirouettes and pliés,
As I sprint for the fucking door.