except no I don't,
but that's what I tell myself
as to not go crazy at home
a limerick inside my head
a quick rhyme to keep me right
to sit back down and not to fight
for fear I may enjoy it.
Why would a princess ever
fall for a peasant boy
and have it work out,
it's my fault for my own blindness
and to think I hoped for something more
but I forgot it was me we were talking about
so why would that ever happen
because apparently my heart
holds the same intrinsic value as a squeaky toy
which a dog will just occasionally pick up
but only to drop it for one more entertaining.
Why does it seem that the prettiest days
are the ones that are hardest to enjoy,
yet it only rains on days that I'm smiling
as if to keep my eyes damp in my stead.
And why is the carpet always yanked from under my feet,
instead of just being rolled up when I arrive?
This recurring predicament exists to tease
at the unending of my curse.