Eight

When I was eight I thought I'd be a princess and happy by now.

Shouldn't I have subjects here to curtsey, kneel, and bow?

I still don't have my mermaid tail or shiny fairy wings.

And where is my handsome gallant prince the title of princess brings?

 

I'd like to think that if I sing it'd bring the woodland creatures over.

They'd help me make a magic dress and give me a royal makeover.

But no such luck, no beckoning tune, no silky magic voice.

No talking or sewing animal friends, and very limited wardrobe choice.

 

Maybe I should try a wishing well like subservient Cinderella

Oh wait. Wrong one. That's how Snow White caught her charming pretty fella.

Growing up I'd balance books higher and higher upon my head.

Cause girls with good balance and posture are the kind that princes wed.

 

Girls will comment "goddess", "princess", "gorgeous" and "YASS QUEEN!"

If only a man would think that of me, oh what I'd give for one so keen.

While I wait for such a person to come and sweep me off my feet,

I'll go around town, in sweats, not a gown, to sing and dance about the street.

 

When you wonder who that weirdo is, blasting music in her car,

With windows down, loose hair blowing round, and sunroof full ajar.

Belting at the top of her lungs like it's absolutely vital.

Know it's younger, happy, eight year old me, coming back to claim her title.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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