Scribbled on a Box of Cereal

My compulsion is the abstraction
Of the motives of my actions.
There’s magic in the air between us,
So long as logic tends to leave us.

My compulsion is detachment
From the love I love to dance with.
He has eyes like laptop screens:
Glowing with a promised ring,
He leaves my room much less than clean.

My mother knew a path before me,
No march of princess-madness for me:
She made keys to mind my future,
She saw it brighter than I hoped for.

My compulsion is for mad men,
Who live as muses while I have them.
And hold me together
By my soul,
Just in case I begin,
To take a toll.