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.