As my unattainable love sat handsome in my head,
I dreamt of the could haves, and poetry, I read.
The classics inspired me -- like Browning and Donne,
Eliot and Plath and Shakespeare and Young.
It inspired a calling that was surfacing in time,
and my aching for this boy was enveloped by rhyme.
I wrote to relieve myself of heartache and tears,
for the boy that I longed for was now her's for years.
Though my words were implauasable, and never to be seen,
I had to remember I was only sixteen.
The harder I worked, the better I dealt,
The words that I scribbled were sincere and heartfelt.
As time took it's course, and rhyme did as well,
I discovered something crucial that only time could tell.
He wasn't the one, and he sure never will be,
But I'm not upset, spiteful or angry.
It was him that inspired a universe of new,
in a world full of heartbreak, my poems worked as glue.
It was him that assisted the writer in me,
And for that I am grateful, and happy, I'll be.