I loved a delicious girl

when I was 14,

and what a girl she was:

blond and sparkling beauty,

with just a hint

of naughtiness

in her smile.

 

And so in class,

where literature was

supposed to be the order

of the boring day,

I sat admiring her luscious mane

that I so wanted to touch,

O so much,

but I never did,

for she never let anyone

touch her hair,

except her friends.

 

My passion for  her grew

in poetic form,

in my loving couplets

and juicy sonnets,

and so I wrote verses of love-

can I now recall?

 

Oh yes:

“Your lips are plump cherries

that I want to eat and crush

with my manly eager mouth”,

or something to that effect.

 

Dear me!

 

No wonder she turned away

and spurned my bleeding soul,

and never looked me in the eye.

 

She must have thought me

ever so weird,

and so did my teacher,

if I recall.

 

But persist I did,

with poems of love divine

that she promptly threw in the bin

and with them pieces of

my tender, fragile heart.

 

O how dramatic!

Really?

Tone it down, young fella!

 

But that’s just the way I was

as a boy of 14,

with my poetry and hormones

in playful embrace,

and she playing the game of

hardball and hard-to-get;

I bet she really liked

my bloody, bleeding poems,

but she never said.

 

The years rolled by,

or so the cliche goes,

but I have never forgotten

the delicious blond haired girl

who sat in my class

and fired my soul

and spurred my desire

and turned me into

a drivelling romantic fool.

 

18/3/2017