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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Experience · #1886628
A crush on my teacher.
I will never forget my third grade teacher.
She was blonde and she wore her fine hair in a bun,
and my very first crush caused my feelings to stir;
Miss Sabula, each day, had my heart on the run.
I would bring a red apple to put in her hand
every day just before the first class would begin;
then my eight-year old heart would join in with the band
and the music would make me an internal grin.

Though she focused a lot on what we had to learn,
I was hard-pressed to keep my attention on math;
as a boy it is hard when a love starts to burn
for those feelings essentially tear you in half.
But the half had a joy that I never had felt
and discovery witnessed arousing within,
with a pulse that was rapid down under my belt,
for that rising awareness was internal grin.

And I dreamed of my teacher when I went to bed
as the moon and the stars sprinkled light from above;
it was now go to school with no reticent dread
for intense is the motive when you are in love.
But alas, came the day--Miss Sabula was wed,
and the joy that I knew was nowhere to be found.
Then it hit me like bricks as it haunted my head,
the big grin I had known modified to a frown.

24 Lines

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